Chapter Text
When David arrived at the Black Horse the next afternoon, an hour before it was to open for the evening, Will Darling was sitting at a table, next to a man with eyes the colour of Guinness. Secretan didn’t patronise the pub as often as Darling: those eyes had a tendency to cloud with boredom or even desperation after a few minutes of football talk. At the moment, however, his expression was distinctly saturnine, and Mr. Cavalopreto tilted his head towards the two men, indicating that David was to join them.
“KS and WD, I presume?”
Secretan’s eyebrows shot up. “Good heavens, he’s already roped you into the folderol with the initials?”
“He does have reason,” Darling countered. “I could have done without the concussions at V’s.”
Secretan’s lips twitched. “A defence of the chief? Dare I believe my ears? Who are you and what have you done with Will Darling, you fiend?”
“He ought to be out buying brooms, seeing how all the ones here got splintered or cracked two nights ago, and you had to borrow the one from his shop to clean up.”
David ventured, “You look here enough to me.”
The corners of Darling’s eyes crinkled. “So do you, and that’s a good thing for business. Kim doesn’t have your speed or touch with pulling pints.”
“That’s not what you said about my pulling at home,” the other man quipped.
Darling rolled his eyes. Secretan continued, “Besides, it is hardly my fault how messy things got, seeing how Galt was crashing into everything like a demented caribou. Which that five-hundred-page horsechoker of a file did indicate was a likelihood, but blame me if it held a shred of anything useful on caribou control.”
“No need for a manual for that,” Darling countered. “We subdued him quick as we could.”
“He came back in once he saw Sir Archie wasn’t here?” David asked.
“Funny how a dead shot discourages bullies,” Darling drily observed.
David frowned, thinking back. “But Galt wasn’t here when Sir Archie demolished all comers at darts. Was he?”
“He wasn’t.” Secretan nodded approvingly. “Nicely noted. You might just live up to what your friends have said about you. And, speaking of reputation, Curtis is rather legendary in certain circles, including some no self-respecting sybarite should have mixed with. Shame on Galt for hocking his soul to the wrong bastards.”
“DS being a right bastard, when you slice it that way,” Darling offered.
“You would know about slicing,” Secretan retorted.
“Takes one to know one,” Darling good-humouredly fired back.
David mentally apologised to everyone he had ever subjected to in-jokes, because, Lord. Aloud, he said, “So there wasn’t any point to Sir Archie’s demonstration with darts?”
“Need there have been?” Secretan said, far too nonchalantly to mean it. “Can’t a man simply want to pass the time with something that has more of a point than football?”
“Unfortunately, he really is like this all the time,” Darling advised David. “And yes, Sir Archie was warning off some schemers. The ones smart enough to save their skins will stay away for a while. Like they did when the brawling started here Saturday night, between the coves what usually sit by the fireplace and Galt’s pack of penny rogues.”
“That’s what his posturing was about, before,” Secretan helpfully added. “Not that he wasn’t a poser to begin with, but he was taking his frustration out on you and Vercher, because he wasn’t getting on as fast as he needed to with those ‘coves’. Who, in addition to being smart-dressed smugglers, happen to be regulars here.” Secretan punctuated this statement with a decidedly pointed glance at Mr. Cavalopreto, who genially shrugged and tossed a lemon in the air a few times before plunging his knife into it.
“They at least leave staff and innocent bystanders alone,” Darling said, “and they’re right about what’s rotten at Tottenham Hotspur.”
“Be that as it may,” Secretan said, with more than a whiff of asperity, “their cargo and shipping shenanigans were enough to draw Galt’s gang here in hopes of forcing certain arrangements to a head. Such a donnybrook we ended up dealing with.”
“I’ll take broomsticks flying and tables flipping over Marseilles dock fights any time.”
“So I missed all the fun,” David concluded. “How about not shunting me out of the way next time?”
“We’ll see how trained you are by then,” Secretan said. “I’m told that DS runs a far tighter ship than V, with cause, and he will absolutely have my head if I send you into scrums without adequate practice.” He grinned at David’s flinch on hearing scrums. “I knew that’d get you. Get used to me knowing more about you than I should; it’s how I’ll do my best to keep you alive.”
David looked square at Secretan. “Are you trying to scare me off? I hear you’ve a man in Greece who needs a partner.”
“Yes, he does, and Christ is he choosy.”
A guffaw from the counter had them all turning to stare at Mr. Cavalopreto. “Sorry,” he said, waving his knife. “Just remembering da Silva back in the day. Fancypants was hammer-and-tongs unbearable and unpairable ’til Curtis came along.”
David gaped at the landlord, who said to Secretan, “Are you done there? There’s more to getting ready than just cleaning up. With Vercher still gadding about at Oxford, I need more hands on deck before the hordes show up.”
“Done enough,” Secretan agreed. “There’ll be more talking later in any case.”
“Hold up,” David said. “Why isn’t Vercher back yet?”
“Boy in Balliol,” Secretan said, a sardonic gleam in his eye. “A Dark Blue, and maths maven too. Handsome as sin—and not a single romantic bone in that Isis-honed body. It won’t be pretty when we have to sweep up Vercher’s heart, once it gets smashed into smithereens, but he can’t say he wasn’t warned—from multiple corners, at that—and meanwhile he can snoop for us around the spires between snogging, sculling, and whatever else he wants to squander time on over there, on taxpayer shillings. Curtis handed him some tips under cover of a tip last week.”
“What in the sodding deuce,” David spluttered. “Vercher’s on your payroll?” He glared at Mr. Cavalopreto. “You were working with DS before he met Sir Archie?” His voice rising, he demanded, “Does DS have strings on bloody everyone?”
“Yes,” four voices chorused.
Four voices.
David slowly turned towards the voice that didn’t belong to Darling, Secretan, or Mr. Cavalopreto, hardly daring to trust his eyes. Frank Maddox walked up to the table, great-coat dusty and face etched with travel-weariness.
Secretan gestured to the seat next to David. “Sit down before you fall over. DS sent for you, I presume?”
“Yes, I got the dispatch Wednesday night. I’ve no idea what this is about, though. I didn’t ask questions beyond making sure the telegram really was from DS.” His eyes, plainly asking What business do you have with David?, glittered with strong emotion.
“Good man. We’ll fill you in soon enough—the Soupault affair’s not over yet, no fault of Crabtree’s, and neither is the imbroglio Galt was bulling around about, no fault of present company, and we’re going to see civil war soon over those coins you were angling to keep away from Pybus, no fault of yours. And all of these are connected to the others, which is why DS went ahead with sending for you, and that’s not remotely all. But first you need to say a proper hello to your fellow here, and we’ll leave you to it,” Secretan said, standing up. Darling, grinning, mouthed “Ten minutes” to David as he followed Secretan out the back door.
Mr. Cavalopreto wiped his hands on a towel and said, “You have five minutes to sort yourselves out,” before very deliberately stalking outside as well.
Frank stared helplessly at David, his mouth working, but no sound coming out.
David thought of the copy of Songs for a Viking in his jacket pocket. The Crabtrees could find him easily enough when they wanted it back—especially now that he knew the true reach of their network—but right now he and Frank needed it more. They needed its keys to unlocking the chambers of the heart they hadn’t dared open to each other before now, its coded wisdom offering a map to their future together.
David placed a finger on Frank’s lips, tracing them with a featherlight touch that had Frank shaking as if buffeted by a strong wind. David softly said, "You. So much for you...”
Frank’s sigh of surrender as their lips met was sweeter music than all the songs David had ever heard. “Oh, my friend,” David husked out, as they broke apart. “I have to work now, but, oh, my love.”
Frank nodded, pressing a kiss against David’s palm. “The dance of fire and fists,” he whispered—a line David recognised, from the first poem in Songs for a Viking.
“The dance of war and wit,” Frank hoarsely continued, squeezing David’s hand.
Placing one more longing, lingering kiss on it, Frank spoke again—“Our dance, David”—and the words held all the majesty and marvellous beauty of a vow.