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  Sherlock could make out figures clustered along the side of the pursuing ship. They were all holding swords, and they were waving the swords above their heads.

  Sherlock’s fingers clenched on the leather-covered handle of his knife. It wasn’t much to defend his life with.

  The wind that was blowing from the direction of the stern brought with it the sound of voices. The pirates were singing some kind of war chant.

  As Sherlock and the rest of the crew watched, the chase played out. Despite every scrap of sail that the Gloria Scott possessed being called into use, despite every rope being tightened until it creaked, the pursuing ship gradually ate up the distance between them. Sherlock could see the faces of the Chinese pirates: tattooed and snarling. Half of them were bald, while the other half had long hair that was either falling wildly around their shoulders or was drawn back into a plait hanging down their backs.

  Mr Larchmont’s voice rose above the rushing of the wind and the chanting of the pirates. ‘Hold fast, my laddies! We’ll be laughing about this adventure and drinking in the taverns of Shanghai before you know it!’

  But they wouldn’t be. Sherlock was sure of it. The Chinese pirate ship was built for speed, while the Gloria Scott was weighed down by her cargo. The pirate ship raced like a greyhound across the sea while the Gloria Scott wallowed in the waves like a pregnant bulldog.

  Sherlock realized that Wu Chung was standing beside him. The Chinese cook stared out impassively at the ship behind them.

  ‘It is called a “junk” in your language,’ he said quietly after a while, ‘although that is not our word for it. Junks are faster and better equipped than any other ship on the seas. We have been sailing them for thousands of years – while your people were just looking at the oceans and wondering how to get across them.’

  ‘What will they do to us if they catch us?’ Sherlock asked.

  ‘Steal our cargo, for sure,’ Chung said. ‘If we had lots of passengers then they might hold them for ransom from the authorities in Shanghai, but we only have one and I don’t think he would fetch very much money. These pirates are superstitious fellows. One look at his face and they would throw him overboard.’

  ‘And what about the rest of us?’

  ‘If we are lucky they will leave us locked up in the hold, adrift, with our sails ripped and all our food taken.’

  ‘And if we’re unlucky?’ Sherlock had to ask the question, but he knew he wouldn’t like the answer.

  Wu Chung obviously felt the same way. ‘Do not ask,’ he said quietly. ‘You may find out, soon enough.’

  ‘But you speak Cantonese,’ Sherlock pointed out. ‘You are Chinese – like them. Can’t you talk to them – reason with them? There must be something that we can offer them that would make them go away.’

  Wu shook his head. ‘I may speak the same language as them, but I am not like them. Perhaps my appearance will save my life, perhaps not. The fact that I am on this ship with you means that I will be treated like you. Worse, perhaps, as I have left my home and I am working with foreign devils. There is nothing I can offer them that they cannot take for themselves.’

  Sherlock glanced down at Wu’s hand. The cook was grasping a large carving knife. His knuckles were white and bloodless, he was holding the handle so tightly.

  Wu saw that Sherlock was looking at the knife. ‘I will fight with you,’ he said calmly. ‘And, if that is the will of the universe, I will die alongside you.’

  Sherlock shivered. ‘I’m really hoping it doesn’t come to that,’ he said.

  Even while Sherlock and Wu had been talking, the junk had got closer. Sherlock could make out individual voices, and he could see the pirates’ weapons clearly. Some of them were holding curved swords; some were holding long pikes with wickedly barbed blades on the end; some were holding strange metal shapes that resembled nothing so much as two swords tied together and covered with jutting metal thorns. The deck of the junk was a forest of sharp blades.

  He had never felt so threatened, or so helpless, in his life. He could see the fierceness of the pirates’ expressions and the wildness of their clothing. Many of them wore turbans made out of red or blue cloth. Some of them were bare-chested, others wore rough shirts or waistcoats. Most of them also had broad leather belts around their waists into which they had tucked an array of knives, swords and ancient pistols, and baggy trousers tucked into leather boots.

  Sherlock noticed that a lot of them were wearing jewellery. That made sense. It wasn’t as if they could place their treasure in a bank on shore, and hiding it somewhere on board their junk meant taking the risk that another pirate would steal it. The only safe solution was to carry as much of their personal wealth as they could.

  Despite his terror, Sherlock spotted that one of the pirates was holding something. It was about the size and shape of a turnip, and he was hefting it as if he intended to throw it. Sherlock wondered exactly what he thought he was doing. Throwing rocks, or the nearest equivalent, wasn’t exactly going to help the pirates take over the Gloria Scott, was it?

  Then he realized that a lot of the pirates were holding similar objects.

  The rest of the crew of the Gloria Scott were equally puzzled. Sherlock could hear fevered discussions all around him as his companions speculated wildly on what the pirates were planning.

  They had their answer sooner than they wanted. As the two ships came within throwing range three of the pirates fiddled with the objects in their hands. It took a moment for Sherlock to work out what they had done, but when the pirates balanced themselves like cricketers and threw the turnip-sized objects towards the Gloria Scott Sherlock could see that they each trailed behind them a length of string that had been set alight.

  A fuse.

  ‘Watch out, lads!’ Mr Larchmont’s voice rose above the commotion. ‘This is the devil’s work!’

  The objects arced overhead. One of them hit a mast and bounced off, falling back into the strip of ocean between the two ships. The other two hit the deck, bounced a couple of times, then rolled to a stop.

  Before anyone could get to them, they exploded.

  They were something like fireworks and something like small bombs. Scarlet and yellow flames spread rapidly over the deck as some kind of oily substance splattered across the wood and soaked in. Sparks scattered like swarms of fiery insects. Sailors rushed to throw buckets of seawater on to the burning oil. Steam rose up from the deck, but the flames just hissed and then kept on burning.

  ‘Sand!’ Larchmont bellowed from somewhere towards the back of the deck. Break out the sandbags! Spread sand on the flames if you value your lives!’

  Five more fireballs burst on the deck, spilling oil and flames and sparks in all directions. A sailor running with a bucket of water slipped and fell into the conflagration. Sherlock saw him roll out again instantly, but his shirt was on fire. Without thinking, Sherlock ran over to him and tried to brush the flames out, but the oil had soaked into the cloth and it wouldn’t extinguish. Another sailor joined Sherlock, and together they managed to rip the shirt from the man’s back and throw it overboard, singeing their fingers in the process.

  Black smoke billowed across the deck, obscuring Sherlock’s view. The smoke caught at the back of his throat and he choked. His eyes stung.

  Panic engulfed the ship.

  But only for a moment, and then discipline reasserted itself, bolstered by Mr Larchmont’s shouted orders. A group of sailors ran forward with sandbags, dragged from somewhere inside the ship. They ripped the seams open with knives and scattered the sand across the burning oil. It smothered the flames instantly. Dark smoke drifted across the deck, but the hellish glow of the fire was gone. Discipline reasserted itself.

  Either because they realized that the crew of the Gloria Scott were standing by with more sandbags, or because the pirates had run out of ammunition, no more fireballs sailed overhead from the junk. The tone of the pirates’ shouts changed as well, from triumphant laughing to a darker collectio
n of curses and threats.

  Movement on the deck of the junk attracted his attention. He stared intently. Pirates were massing at the closest point to the Gloria Scott. They were carrying grappling hooks. Having softened the crew up with their fireballs, the pirates were preparing to board the Gloria Scott. Sherlock could swear that some of them were looking directly at him, and smiling with exposed teeth.

  He felt an involuntary shiver run through him. His stomach churned, and there was an acidic, metallic taste at the back of his throat. Part of him desperately wanted the chase to be over, so that something would happen. As it was, all he could do was wait, and the waiting was unbearable. On the other hand, another part of him dreaded the inevitable battle and hoped the chase would continue until they hit land. All he had was a small knife to offer up against swords, pikes and weapons the like of which he had never seen before. If it came to a fight he wouldn’t last thirty seconds.

  And then the first pirate threw the first grappling hook. It arced across the distance between the ships, trailing a rope behind it like a pencil line scrawled across the blue page of the sky. The distance was too great: the hook hit the side of the Gloria Scott and bounced off, but it was a signal that triggered the rest of the pirates into action. While the first one pulled his hook out of the water, ready to try again, the others swung their hooks around their heads and let them fly. The air was suddenly filled with sharp metal and wet rope. Most of the hooks fell short, but four or five of them cleared the Gloria Scott’s rail and hit the deck. A great shout went up from the pirates. The ropes were pulled sharply back before any of the Gloria Scott’s crew could get to them – pulled with enough force that the curved hooks embedded themselves in the railing that ran around the edge of the deck. The ropes pulled tight, forming precarious bridges over which the pirates could clamber like monkeys, but before any of them could get all the way across, the Gloria Scott’s crew started sawing through the ropes with swords and knives, or swinging at them with axes. Others tried to prise the hooks from the wooden rail by hand. None of those first ropes lasted longer than thirty seconds, sending the pirates who were climbing along them falling into the narrowing strip of water between the two ships, but by that time there were twenty more hooks embedding themselves in the Gloria Scott’s deck and rails and masts, or tangling themselves in the ship’s rigging. Sherlock glanced around desperately.

  Pretty soon there would be too many hooks and ropes for the crew to deal with.

  ‘Look lively!’ Mr Larchmont yelled. ‘If you ever want to see your wives and girlfriends again, don’t let these barbarians set one pox-ridden foot on this ship!’

  Sherlock saw that as well as climbing along the ropes, the pirates were also hauling on them from the safety of their deck, trying to narrow the distance between the two vessels. It seemed to be working. The Gloria Scott and the pirate ship were nearly side by side now, and there was barely five yards between them.

  A hook hit the deck next to Sherlock’s foot. Before he could do anything the rope pulled taut, and the hook whipped away from him, catching in the wooden rim surrounding one of the hatches. Sherlock leaped towards it, desperately sawing at the fibres with his knife, but his blade was blunt and slipped off the wet surface. He grabbed at the hook and tried to pull it out of the wood. His fingers kept scrabbling for purchase.

  He glanced up. There were pirates already on board, fighting hand to hand with the crew! Ignoring them as best he could, he let his gaze trace the line of the rope to where it crossed the rail. A pirate with wild, shoulder-length hair and a massive scar down the side of his face was already halfway across!

  Sherlock redoubled his efforts. The grappling hook shifted beneath his hands: the barbed tines hadn’t penetrated very far into the sun-baked wood, and by straining every fibre of his muscles he could just about pull it clear.

  Sherlock gave one last heave, and the grappling hook shifted so that only one tine was caught on the wooden hatch. He glanced up. The grinning pirate was almost at the rail now.

  Sherlock kicked at the grappling hook, desperately trying to dislodge it.

  Somewhere on the ship a gun fired, and fired again. The Captain?

  Still kicking at the hook, Sherlock looked up again.

  It was too late. The pirate had reached the deck of the Gloria Scott. He took a step towards Sherlock, raising his sword menacingly.

  He had a dragon tattooed on his forearm: a beautiful, sinuous creature rippling over his muscle and coloured in iridescent blue. For a split second that seemed to last an eternity Sherlock found himself admiring the artistry.

  The pirate’s upper lip pulled back in a sneer of triumph. His teeth were mottled black with decay, and spaced like gravestones.

  More in sheer frustration than in hope, Sherlock kicked the grappling hook one last time. It tore free of the hatch with a ripping of wood and a spray of splinters. At the same time a freak roll of the waves pulled the two ships apart by ten feet or so. The rope suddenly went taut and the hook hurtled back towards where it had come from. The sharp points caught the pirate in the shoulder. His face took on a look of pain and astonishment as the rope yanked tighter, dragging him off his feet and back towards the railing. His back hit the top of the rail with a sickening crunch and he vanished over the edge. Despite the sounds of clashing steel, shouts and gunfire that filled the air, Sherlock could swear that he heard a terrified scream cut short by a splash.

  With the ships that close together, Sherlock didn’t give the pirate much of a chance of climbing back up. If he didn’t drown straight away then the hulls would probably squash him like an insect as they came together.

  And good riddance too.

  In a moment of relative calm, Sherlock glanced around, trying to orientate himself. His impression was that the battle was evenly matched. There seemed to be as many pirates as there were crew, fighting hand to hand, and a quick glance at the unoccupied web of ropes that now linked the two ships together suggested that all of the pirates who could come across had done so. The remainder were presumably needed to man the pirate ship, to steer it, and stop it from suddenly veering sideways and smashing into the Gloria Scott.

  Off to one side he caught sight of Mr Arrhenius. The veiled man had emerged from his cabin to see what was going on. He was standing half hidden by the ship’s middle mast. He raised his hand, and Sherlock saw that he was holding a pistol. Carefully he took aim and fired. A pirate across the other side of the deck suddenly jerked and fell down.

  Arrhenius glanced at Sherlock and nodded. Sherlock raised a thumb in acknowledgement of the passenger’s help.

  As Sherlock turned away a movement caught his eye. One pirate had broken off from the fight and was slipping along the raised deck towards the rear of the ship, aiming for the doorway in the middle – the doorway that led back towards the cabins. He was small, and what little hair he had was pulled back into a waxed pigtail. It was the surreptitious way he was moving that attracted Sherlock’s attention. In the midst of a chaos of wildly waving weapons and grappling figures, this man moved as if he didn’t want to be noticed.

  Amyus Crowe often told Sherlock to look for the things that stick out, the things that don’t belong. Those are things that have a story to tell. Those are things that need to be explained.

  So Sherlock followed.

  By the time he got to the doorway the pirate had vanished into the shadows of the corridor. Sherlock hung back for a moment, in case the man was going to turn around and come straight out, but after a few seconds he went in after him.

  The clamour of the fight outside died away quickly. Sherlock paused while his eyes got used to the relative darkness. The pirate had gone directly to the door of Mr Arrhenius’s cabin. But Arrhenius was out on deck, fighting – Sherlock had seen him. What on earth was the pirate looking for?

  The door was open a crack, and Sherlock moved quietly closer. He looked inside.

  The pirate was a dark shape illuminated only by the meagre light shining throug
h the portholes, but Sherlock could see him bending over a table. He seemed to be gazing intently at something.

  Sherlock wished he could see what it was. As if fate had heard him, the ship suddenly pitched sideways, and Sherlock found himself falling against the cabin door. It swung open and he staggered into the room.

  The pirate’s head snapped up. His gaze skewered Sherlock. His fingers, which had been holding a set of papers on the table, let go, allowing them to roll up, but Sherlock had time to see that the thing the pirate had been looking at was a set of diagrams that looked like spider’s webs of lines.

  What was going on?

  The pirate grabbed at the papers and came around the desk towards Sherlock. He snarled something in Chinese, and it took Sherlock a moment to translate it. ‘Out of my way, boy, or I will cut your heart out and eat it.’ At least, that’s what Sherlock thought he said.

  Sherlock straightened up. ‘Put that back,’ he found himself saying.

  The pirate sneered. He stepped towards Sherlock, holding the bundle of papers in his left hand. He raised his right hand, and Sherlock saw with no surprise that he was holding a knife. He lunged, aiming the knife at Sherlock’s chest.

  Without thinking, Sherlock blocked the lunging knife with a sweep of his outstretched left hand, then thrust his right hand out, hitting the pirate’s right arm with the heel of his palm. The impact temporarily paralysed the pirate’s muscles. His fingers spasmed, and he dropped the knife. Sherlock realized with amazement that he had performed a classic T’ai chi ch’uan move, but faster than ever before.