Page 14 of New Storm Rising
He was interrupted when he was shoved over the railing of the ship and caught by another man standing below on a boat. But not before his head soundly thumped against the side of the ship.
“Aagh!”
Taking a deep breath, I turned away from the scene to face Mr Ambrose. Beside him, the poor translator stood, his mouth agape, his eyes wide as dinner plates that had been magically enlarged. Walking past him, I patted his shoulder. “Take your time.”
“Glnk.”
Reaching Mr Ambrose, I stopped beside him. “Well, that was…interesting.”
“Indeed.”
“Do you know what I find particularly interesting?”
Silence.
“What I find particularly interesting is that those charming law enforcement officers already knew those two people’s names before they even stepped onto their ship,”
“Quite fascinating, is it not?” Mr Ambrose said with a deadpan face. “I never knew the American police had such exceptional abilities.”
I was tempted to reach out and pinch him. “Neither did they, I fancy.”
Just then, shouts came from the left. Glancing over, I saw that we had reached a pier, and ropes were being thrown ashore and fastened. Instantly, I forgot all about slaves, secrets, intrigues, and psychic American policemen. All I could think of was the wonderful solidity that lay ahead.
Ground! Ground! My kingdom for some steady ground!
Clutching my roiling stomach, I stumbled down the gangway and, the moment I reached land, did my best pope imitation.
“Yes! Yes! Finally!”
One last time, I kissed the ground. Ah…ground. Floor. Earth. Such a wonderful collection of words. Maybe I should write a poem about it?
“Well, well…” came a cool voice from somewhere above me. “To think that barely a week after the wedding, my wife would already be cheating on me? With cobblestones, no less. The morals in this day and age…”
“You!” From the ground, I aimed a kick at his legs—which he neatly dodged by stepping sideways. Pushing myself halfway up, I glared up at him. “Cheating, my arse!”
“You also have donethat?” He shook his head. “The decay in morals is even worse than I thought.”
Straightening the rest of the way, I imperiously dusted off my peacock vest and sent him a glare that informed him who among the two of us was the queen of banter, and he’d better remember that. I was just about to shoot something very smart back at him when, beside Mr Ambrose, the translator stumbled down the gangway, looking dazed.
“Wha-what just happen?” he managed to squeeze out.
“The first winds of a wonderful shitstorm, I’d say.” Grabbing the poor, befuddled man by the arm, I waved to the rest of the delegation of ex-slaves who had just come down the gangway, gazing at everything around them as if they were in a dream. An exceedingly weird one. “Everyone, come over here!”
“W-what happen? What we do now?”
“What I say,” Mr Ambrose answered, with the natural talent of a ruthless tyrant. Snapping his fingers, he gestured. “You! Come here!”
Only then did I notice the slim, black-clad figure with the briefcase clutched under his arm. Striding over, he bowed. “Mr Ambrose, Sir.”
Ah. Seems I’ve been demoted from boss again. Bugger.
“This,” Mr Ambrose stated, “is Mr Fox fromFox, Fox & Cunningham, a most reputable firm of solicitors.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Most respectable?”
“Indeed. Their firm belongs to the most influential British businessman, and focuses on liberating victims of the slave trade. Why, they even help them find work afterwards.”
“R-really?” hope shone in the translators eyes. Oh, the poor little fellow.
