“That was some good brandy,” Kestrel straightened his trousers as he emerged from an alleyway, “Anyway, our next delivery is this sack of tobacco for Cuthbert Wilkinson of Suffolk Street, and he owes four shillings. Let’s hope our minister friend hadn’t impaired his own sense of direction.”
Scar hushed him. Kestrel looked ahead to see a set of five orange lights moving through the fog at the end of the street. He ducked back into the alleyway, with Scar following. Hearing footsteps, he placed the sack down and reached for his rapier. Scar grabbed his arm and shook his head.
Looking out of the alleyway, Kestrel saw the faces of the militiamen illuminated by their lanterns. He held his breath as they passed, listening to the footsteps fade away.
“Must be a routine patrol,” He whispered.
*
Reaching the house on Suffolk Street, Kestrel knocked on the door. A shuttered window flew open above him.
“Clear off! It’s the middle of the night!” A woman leaned out of the open window. Her voice echoed through the empty street.
Kestrel noticed Scar looking over both shoulders.
“Pardon me,” He replied, “I’m looking for Mr Wilkinson. We have a delivery for him.”
“He’s playing Hazard at the Old Royal tavern down the road. Tell him to come home. Drag him back if you have to.” She slammed the shutters.
Kestrel looked at his companion, and they both laughed.
“I know, that’s why I never married.” He led Scar down the street towards the tavern.
*
The interior of the Old Royal smelled of stale beer. The only light came from a single candle on one of the tables, and the darkness amplified the sound of the four men rattling dice and exchanging coin. Kestrel approached the table, prompting the men to stare.
“I’m looking for Mr Wilkinson,” He said, “I was told I could find him here.”
A small bespectacled man stood inched his chair back from the table. Kestrel noticed him, and held up the sack of tobacco.
“My tobacco!” The man said with a grin, “The plantations around here are struggling to grow it. You’re a godsend, sir.”
Kestrel pulled the sack out of Cuthbert’s reach.
“I’ll accept such a title,” he said, “For four shillings.”
Cuthbert sank back into his chair.
“If only you had arrived sooner,” He said, “I’ve wagered the last of my coin.”
“Then I’ll offer it to your friends,” Kestrel placed the sack on the table, “Maybe they can bid on it. Anybody else have four shillings?”
The other three men shook their heads and murmured.
“Well, somebody’s managed to get the coin Mr Wilkinson was supposed to pay us with,” Kestrel grabbed a vacant stool and sat at the table, “I refuse to believe that none of you gentlemen smoke. And my companion and I will not be leaving until we’re paid what we’re owed.”
Scar punctuated the statement with a low growl.
“Wait!” Cuthbert slammed his hand on the table, “Why don’t I play you for it?”
“With what?” Kestrel said, “You’re skint.”
“If you wager that tobacco, my friends can stake the value between them.”
“That doesn’t answer my question. What can you wager?”
Cuthbert reached into his jacket and pulled out a folded letter.
“This letter of transit issued by the East India Company. The militia here don’t take kindly to smugglers, but they’re well-paid not to interfere with the Company’s affairs.”
“Very well,” Kestrel scooped up the dice, “I’ll serve as the caster.”
He rolled the dice. A four and a three.
“The main is seven. Place your bets.”
“I’d say you lose,” Cuthbert placed the letters on the table. The other three gamblers stayed put.
Kestrel rolled again. A six and one.
“You thought wrong.” He snatched the letters away.
“Beginner’s luck.” Cuthbert replied, “Keep rolling.”
Two fours. Cuthbert’s friends placed their bets.
Two sixes.
“With a main of eight, I believe I’ve thrown in with twelve. I’d say our business is concluded.” Kestrel passed the dice and scooped up his winnings.
“What about my tobacco?” Cuthbert stood up.
“You’ve lost,” Kestrel replied, “You’re a gambling man who neglects his wife. She told you where to find you, and perhaps you should go home.”
Cuthbert dropped back into his chair.
“Fine. I suppose I can’t hide from her forever.”
“Go home,” Scar picked up the sack, “And it’s yours.”
Kestrel raised his eyebrows. Cuthbert nodded. Scar handed him the tobacco and ruffled his wig, causing it to slip off. The clerk picked it up and trudged towards the door.
“One more thing,” Kestrel said, “We’re looking for Wentworth Manor.”
Andrew Roberts has been writing as a hobby since the age of 17. After struggling to fit this around a full-time accounts job, he decided to take some time out to study Creative Writing at university.
He hopes to develop a swashbuckler series featuring the wandering rogues Kestrel and Scar.
