These young wolves, p.1
These Young Wolves, page 1
Table of Contents
A NineStar Press Publication
These Young Wolves
Dedication
Author’s Note
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Acknowledgements
About Glenn Quigley
Connect with NineStar Press
A NineStar Press Publication
www.ninestarpress.com
These Young Wolves
ISBN:978-1-64890-595-7
© 2022 Glenn Quigley
Cover Art © 2022 Jaycee DeLorenzo
Published in December 2022 by NineStar Press, New Mexico, USA.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact NineStar Press at Contact@ninestarpress.com.
Also available in Print, ISBN:978-1-64890-596-4
CONTENT WARNING:
This book contains sexual content, which may only be suitable for mature readers. Depictions of guns/gun violence, murder, and death of a secondary character. Mention of past trauma.
These Young Wolves
The Knights of Blackrabbit, Book One
Glenn Quigley
This book is dedicated to the memory of Damian Whyte. I will be forever grateful for his help, his support, and most of all for his friendship.
Author’s Note
From the moment Vince Knight first walked onto the page in The Lion Lies Waiting, I knew there was something special about him. Some characters require a degree of finessing and moulding to reveal their true selves. Not so, Vince. He appeared fully formed and ready for action. It is a genuine thrill to be able to bring you this, the first in his adventures as head of the Port Knot Watch.
The Knights of Blackrabbit series is set in the Pell Isles–a group of islands situated off the coast of Cornwall. The isles and their inhabitants have been heavily influenced by the Cornish language and culture. As such, you will see words such as backalong and bleddy crop up in the dialogue. These are Cornish words which have been adopted by everyday Pellans. Backalong means in former times and bleddy is simply the word bloody in the local vernacular. Other words and phrases have been rewritten to make their meaning clearer, but I felt it important to leave some elements of the local dialect intact.
It is important to note that in this world, an event named “The Illumination” coincided with the fall of the Roman Empire and ultimately led to the abandonment of religious practices across the world. In England, in the year 1141, Queen Matilda passed a law declaring women equal to men with no restrictions placed on their education or the roles they could hold within society. The dearth of religious doctrine led to those who experienced life outside of the traditional to blossom and become accepted as simply another part of life. Prejudice based on gender, race, or sexuality became almost unheard of.
This story begins on 23rd October 1781, the day after the events of We Cry the Sea. It is not essential to have read that book, nor the rest of the Moth and Moon trilogy, though doing so will provide a more detailed insight into how Vince Knight came to arrive at his current position in life.
Chapter One
HE CLICKED HIS pale, meaty fingers twice, sending Crabmeat running along the narrow Entry while he hurried up the dry, cobbled road. He readied himself at a corner and stuck out the tip of his octopus-handled cane. A young man with a thatch of blond hair slammed into the cane at full speed, turning head-over-tit onto the cobbled road. A necklace and a handful of coins spilled out of his pockets, splashing into a horse-made puddle. Crabmeat—a tubby, short-nosed little bulldog—darted after him, barking furiously.
The young thief rolled onto his back, holding his shin and crying out, before being lifted wholly off the ground and slammed against the nearest wall. Vince Knight spoke with a voice like rolling thunder, “Assume you know the way to the Watch House?”
No one in the town of Port Knot could remember a warmer October than that of 1781. As the hazy sun rose in a saffron sky, the harbour stretched its cranes like waking arms and prepared for another day. Already several tall ships had docked and become targets for hungry gulls searching for scraps.
The briny air, awash with the stench of yesterday’s catch, stung Vince’s nose in a familiar and welcoming way. With his bag over his shoulder, he took the thief by the scruff of his neck, and marched deeper into town.
The crowds of traders, dockworkers, and sailors sundered themselves before him and fell quiet when he drew near. He kept his head down and carried on walking. He no longer needed the aid of his cane but thought it added some sophistication to his appearance, especially given his newest acquisition of a patch over his left eye.
Had he not already towered over the townsfolk, his clothing would still have set him apart. Sartorially speaking, he never truly overcame his brawler beginnings. His cream-coloured top shirt had seen better days and his black trousers had long ago begun to fray their edges. Yesterday, he’d attended his brother’s handfasting on the nearby island of Merryapple, and he’d accidentally left his favourite claret overcoat behind. Not that he needed it that morning. His tricorne cap, cracked and scaly in places, covered his snowy white hair and kept the morning sun from his lone icy blue eye.
Port Knot’s sole Watch House sat at a crossroads on the west side of town. Three storeys tall, it had a low front door painted in cornflower blue and a single window set with rusted iron bars. Above these, the sand-coloured bricks rose to an arch and then to a gable, in a wholly unnecessary architectural flourish. Like most buildings in town, thin copper pipes ran across the surface like veins under sallow skin.
The bridges of Port Knot infested the town like rats. Long, short, arched, flat, and each one different from the last. Lickbeer Bridge connected the road above Vince’s head to the first floor of the Watch House and protruded from the side of it like a hernia. The arch had been carved to resemble the open mouth of a bearded man, swallowing all who travelled through.
As with the rest of the town, the Watch House had been built too close to the surrounding premises, and indeed the entire street had the appearance of an overstuffed bookshelf. Within, Vince found a grimy pit of browns and mustards. The Watch House saw hardly any sun, so a plethora of lanterns fought bravely against the gloom.
Vince all but threw the thief onto a chair. “Stay,” he said, pointing. “Or else.”
Crabmeat sat in front of the thief and growled.
Vince let his bag of clothes slump to the dusty floor. He tapped his octopus-handled cane on the knotted wooden floorboards. “Anybody in?”
A voice from a backroom called out to him and presently a slim, dark-haired woman in her early twenties greeted him. She wore oversized tan trousers held up by braces, a striped shirt splattered with oil, and a pair of goggles perched on top of her head. She gripped a hammer in one hand and scowled.
“Got you a present,” Vince said, nodding to the thief.
“Ah, sure that’s very kind of you, altogether.” She raised the hammer a little and steadied herself. “And who might you be, now?”
“Vince Knight. Watch Commander.”
She recoiled but caught herself and recovered. “Oh. Oh!” She set the hammer on a table and cleaned her hand on an oily rag. She shook his hand, hers so tiny in his. “I didn’t know you were coming today. I’m Sorcha Fontaine, Watchwoman. There’s no one else here; the others don’t start until nightfall. I came in early to fix the plumbing. It’s not very reliable.”
The thief rose from his chair. “I can see you have your hands full; there’s really no point in me hanging around.”
Crabmeat barked at him and he sat back down immediately.
“I must admit, it was a surprise to hear you were taking over,” Sorcha said. “It wasn’t so long ago we were trying to arrest you.” She tried to laugh but it didn’t come out right. Too dry.
“Things change.” Vince strode around the Watch House, taking it all in. It held a few tables, a few chairs, and not much else.
“Well, I suppose it takes a criminal to catch a criminal,” the thief said.
“What did he do this time?” Sorcha asked.
“Helped relieve a woman of her purse and necklace,” Vince said.
“It wasn’t me, I swear! I didn’t do anything!”
Vince rushed over and grabbed the thief’s arm, pulling up his sleeve to reveal a vambrace. “Explain this.”
“I’m looking after it for a friend…”
“Frogblade,” Sorcha said. “Nasty little things, they are. Tool of choice of the Clockbreakers. A twist of the wrist is all it takes for a little arm tipped with a razorblade to flash in and out, quick as a frog snatching a fly. The blade slices the pocket of the unsuspecting victim, their wallet slips out into a hand or an open bag, and the victim is none the wiser. How long did it take you to learn not to cut your own hands open with it?”
“Longer than you’d think…” the thief said. Faded white lines crossed his palms.
“Clockbreakers?” Vince asked.
“It’s what they call themselves now,” Sorcha said. “I thought you’d have known all about them?”
“Been away from town for a while.” Vince had spent most of his fifty-three years living in the town but recent events had taken him to the countryside for a spell.
“All the pickpockets, housebreakers, and shoplifters banded together last year, after you and Councillor Mudge…well…left. They started using all this fancy horological technology, thanks to Flowers and his contacts in the industry. And they’ve been a right pain the arse ever since, haven’t yis?”
Vince wrenched the frogblade off the thief’s bony arm.
Sorcha rooted in a deep drawer and withdrew a set of rusty shackles. “Now, we’ll just trade your bracelet for these and drag him to the magistrates for sentencing. Then it’s off to the gaolhouse with him.”
“Him has a name,” the thief said. “It’s Walter. Not that anybody cares.”
“I already know your name,” Sorcha said. “And if I thought it mattered, I’d have used it.” She clamped the manacles onto his bony wrists. “Who do you report to? Merlin or Flowers?”
“Flowers,” Walter said.
“Know him,” Vince said. “One of my boys, once.”
“He’s moved up in the world since then,” Sorcha said. “He’s one of the higher-ranking Clockbreakers now.”
“Knew he had potential.”
“You taught him well,” Sorcha said.
Vince wasn’t sure if he was supposed to hear that. She was right though. Vince had taught Flowers everything he knew. Taught him how to be a thief, yes, but Vince had taught him how to live in the corners of society. How to make a life for himself in a world that insisted it had no place for people like him. Vince had done the same for so many people, taken so many lost souls off the streets and given their lives purpose and meaning. And now he was going to betray them. Every single one.
Chapter Two
“YES, ALL OF them! Why would I want only some of the ratlines inspected? See to it this deck is spotless by the time I return. I want a full inventory of ammunition and rations, and I expect to see those spars repaired.” Captain James Godgrave descended the gangplank of his ship, the Lancelot Striking, and wrinkled his nose at the odour of the bustling docklands. Overhead, cranes turned, lifting goods from ships and depositing them on carts. Dockhands scurried past, ferrying ropes and other odds and ends. Ahead, market stalls plied their wares to feverish shoppers. A skinny greyhound tied to a butt by a frayed piece of rope whimpered at anyone who caught its gaze.
James’s lieutenant approached, turned out to the nines. “The carriage is just up ahead, sir. As they said it would be.”
Shiny black and with the seal of the Chase Trading Company emblazoned on the door, the carriage stood out from its grotty surroundings like a marble headstone on a muddy grave. James climbed into the plush plum interior and thumped the ceiling with the underside of his fist.
The coachman took them along Quarrier’s Run, the twisting main road leading from the long, curving swathe of docklands to the centre of town. James had been there only twice before and found it busier each time. The roadsides swarmed with people going about their day. A trading town with a busy harbour, Port Knot also had numerous quarries and mines farther inland. The town found itself caught between the land and the sea in more ways than one.
The copper pipes around every building clattered with the water they carried. To his left, workers laboured to tear down a house. To his right, construction continued on a new one. His lieutenant, Pertinacity Hancock, ignored most of the activity.
“Has it changed much since the last time you were home?” James asked.
“Not in any way that matters,” she said.
A man cried out from a side street, evidently the victim of a robbery, and he dashed after two young girls who bundled a coin purse and expensive cane in their arms, giggling all the while.
James leaned his head out of the carriage window. “I say, Perty, shouldn’t we stop and help?”
“No point,” Perty said. “They’ll be in the Entries by now.”
On the balcony of a theatre, a set of horological automata played instruments. Tin mice and copperplate cats blew into horns and plucked strings, seemingly producing the sounds of one of Handel’s operas, albeit greatly reduced.
The carriage took them through the centre and to the south side of town, where the architecture underwent a marked change. The businesses became fewer, the noises quieter, and the houses bigger. Many sat in their own grounds, surrounded by high iron fences. They came to a stop outside one such mansion.
A footwoman with the most remarkable hazel eyes James had ever seen welcomed them. She escorted them through the gates, up the winding flagstone pathway, and through the arched front doors of the buff-coloured mansion. The hallway, a pleasing sea green, held oil paintings of stern-faced aristocrats and oddly thin dogs.
In a cheery drawing room, James discovered a decanter with brandy and poured some into a tumbler. He caught himself in a gilt looking glass and checked the ends of his moustache and the point of his short ducktail beard. Always broad in the beam, he’d put on a little more weight at sea, not an easy thing to do. His uniform bulged slightly at the buttons.
“Captain Godgrave, such a delight.”
He turned to find the nude form of Mrs Dorothea Chase walking towards him, hand outstretched. He grinned widely. “A pleasure to see you again, Councillor Chase.”
“I must insist you address me as Swan, Captain. Standards must be maintained.”
“Of course, I wouldn’t have it any other way. This is my lieutenant, Pertinacity Hancock.”
“Oh, now, you must be a local with a name like that.”
“I am, ma’am.” Perty hovered awkwardly by the window until beckoned to sit. “Port Knot, born and bred.”
A woman in her late forties with a round face and a fuller figure, Dorothea Chase’s inclination towards nakedness was well known but James had never witnessed it before today. Unburdened by prudishness or an overdeveloped sense of shame himself, he found it rather delightful. Perty appeared less than impressed, which came as no surprise. James had always found her a touch stuffy.
“How are you finding your new position on the council?” James asked.
“Chaffing,” she said. “But not without its uses. I hope you both won’t object to my attire or lack thereof? I dislike clothes at the best of times, and I find this heat to be simply unbearable.”
“I believe we should all be as comfortable as possible in our own homes,” James said. “Shall I pour you a drink?”
“It’s a little early… Oh, why not? This is a special occasion.”
Every member of the ruling council of Blackrabbit took on an animal name. As Swan, her responsibilities lay in managing the waters around the island. A very useful position for the owner of a shipping company to be in. James handed her a drink, and they sat facing one another on matching pink satin settees.
“Captain, you probably won’t have seen much of the town yet, but let me assure you it is in turmoil,” Swan said. “For the past few months, we have been held to ransom by the whims of warring criminal cabals. For a time, we didn’t dare to leave our homes after sunset for fear of being caught in their crossfire. Every morning brought with it a fresh body on our streets. Now, rumour has it they’ve settled their differences and have re-organised themselves. No home is safe from thieves. Every road out of town is fraught with highwaymen, and who knows what manner of illicit goods pass through our harbour every day.
