by Anne Lyle
Coby shuddered. “They’d torture us for information.”
“I dare say they would.”
“You aren’t afraid?”
“Terrified, to be frank. But we’re not betrayed to the Spanish yet, so there’s no point worrying about it, is there?”
“I wish I could be so sanguine.”
The deck above them trembled with the passage of footsteps, and dust sifted down, sparkling in the thin beams of sunlight that pierced the planking. The captain shouted orders, and the entire vessel creaked and groaned as it shifted to starboard.
“What? Why are we heading west?” Coby cried out.
“West? Are you sure?” Gabriel looked around. “Perhaps we’re turning back for England.”
“Perhaps.” It was a thin hope at best. “I think I can get out of my bonds. Mal’s taught me a few tricks in the last year, and I have one or two of my own.”
“Such as?”
She strained to look around. “I’d rather not say out loud. We can’t be sure who’s listening.”
“Good point.”
“Anyway, there’s no use our getting free until we have a plan.”
“And do you have one of those?”
“Alas, no.”
Sandy sagged against his bonds, his stomach churning, though whether that was revulsion at the memories flooding his mind, or just the usual disorientation he felt whenever he put a spirit-guard on, he could not decide. Perhaps a mix of both. What had the captain said the young skrayling’s name was? Daniel, or something like it. And Daniel had gone into the lion’s den and not come out.
It had been a winter’s night, eleven years ago, when Sandy and Mal had been woken by their elder brother Charles and taken on a midnight ride across the hills with the Huntsmen. A ride that ended in fire and mutilation and murder, an act intended to strike fear into the hearts of the skraylings and ensure they never ventured outside their enclave again. It was also the initiation of the two brothers into that secret order, against their will.
His memories blurred into a parade of images as unreal as the flickering shapes seen in a fire: distorted faces leering at him, candlelight that burned his eyes, houses flashing past the window of a coach… and through it all, the memory of the skrayling’s cries of agony. He had not recognised him as the boy from the council meeting, of course – the trauma of rebirth had locked most of Erishen away in the depths of his mind –but seeing Tanijeel tortured and murdered by the Huntsmen had broken through the scars. Now the wounds bled afresh and he wept with guilt and grief. Hennaq was right. Too many had died already, and it was all his fault.
CHAPTER XII
They had fought off the corsairs, but it was a Pyrrhic victory. Nearly a third of the crew were either dead or so badly injured that their lives hung in the balance, and few had escaped unscathed. Every man who could walk and use at least one hand found himself doing double watches, including Mal and Ned. As far as possible they were given the simplest tasks: hauling on the sheets under the guidance of more experienced sailors, tending the wounded, fetching and carrying anything that was needed by Raleigh or the crew.
Unfortunately the ship’s carpenter was one of the casualties, and without him the crew were able to make only the most basic repairs. The stern was the highest priority, and by the end of the first day after the attack the rear wall of the captain’s cabin had been cobbled back together, enough to keep out the worst of the wind and sea should they hit a storm. However they had to break up most of the remaining bunk-beds for planking, so Raleigh moved into the forward cabin and Mal and Ned joined the common sailors below. There was plenty of space now that so many of the crew were gone, but with the moans of the dying echoing up from the hold and only a few unbroken lanterns left to light the pitch darkness, the lower decks might as well have been some forgotten corner of Hell.
“What now?” Ned asked one morning, as he and Mal squatted on coils of rope in the shade of the mizzenmast, stealing a moment’s rest between errands. He stretched out his legs, knowing that his aching feet would be even more painful once he stood up again, but the chance of a respite was too good to resist.
“Raleigh’s set a course for Sardinia,” Mal replied, staring off into the distance.
“Where’s that?”
Mal shook out a length of rope and arranged it in the rough outline of the Mediterranean.
“We were about here when the corsairs attacked,” he said, pointing to a spot well north of the African coast, “and Sardinia is here, halfway between France and Italy. It’s not too far out of our way, at least.”
“You don’t sound very happy about it.”
“Sardinia is ruled by Spain. Even if we can recruit more crew there, can we trust them?”
“Do we have a choice?”
Mal shook his head. “Another corsair attack, and we’re dead. Raleigh will never surrender to slavers.”
“Is that likely?” Ned asked.
Mal didn’t answer. Ned swallowed past a sudden tightness in his throat. He’d known this voyage would be dangerous, but until now he hadn’t understood just how great that danger might be. And if he died here at sea, so far from home, how long would it take for the news to reach Gabriel? Gabriel, whose face he might never see again… He felt tears prick his eyes, and cleared his throat noisily in an attempt to force them away.
“Come on,” Mal said, scrambling to his feet. “No use in fretting about what may never happen. We have work to do.”
The Falcon limped into Cagliari harbour two days later, her crew capable of raising only the faintest of cheers. Mal paused for a moment on his way to the rail, and then slumped back onto the fo’c’s’le stair, his blistered hands falling into his lap. A moment later Ned slithered down the stair behind him and clapped him on the shoulder.
“Soon be back on dry land,” he said, his voice as raw as Mal’s palms.
“You’ll have to winch me ashore,” Mal groaned, leaning his cheek against the rough planking. “And hire a wheelbarrow, to tip me into bed.”
By the time they weighed anchor Mal had rallied somewhat, and was persuaded to gather his belongings and stagger down the gangplank with the rest of the crew. They followed Raleigh across the too-bright quay and through winding streets to an inn, where they were shown into a courtyard filled with tables and benches. Mal sagged onto a bench at Ned’s side, and laid his head down on folded arms. He could swear the cobblestones were rolling underfoot like waves. It felt like only a moment later when someone shook him awake.
“Mal? Supper.”
He raised his head. The courtyard was half in shadow, and though his shirt had dried on his back as he slept, his shoes and stockings were still damp and stiff with salt water. He straightened up and rubbed a hand over his sunburned face. Someone had mentioned supper?
On the table in front of him sat a bowl of stew and an earthenware cup of velvet-red wine. Suddenly aware he’d not eaten since breakfast, he pulled the bowl towards him and dipped the spoon into the broth. The dull green ovals of broad beans bobbed amongst hunks of dark fish-meat, along with what looked like a slice of lemon. Mal tasted it cautiously then, hunger roused, wolfed the contents of the bowl, wiping it clean with a hunk of coarse bread.
Ned grinned at him across the table. “Better?”
“Much.” He drained his cup and refilled it from a jug. “Where are we?”
“Some hostelry in the backstreets. I just followed the rest of them.”
He looked at the surrounding building in curiosity, and Mal followed his gaze. Thick walls of whitewashed cob surrounded them on all sides, pierced by round-arched windows and roofed with terracotta tiles. Olive trees stood in huge green-glazed pots at intervals around the courtyard, and over the rooftops they could see more buildings in the same style, rising up into the darkening sky where the waning moon gleamed like a well-used English penny.
“First time on foreign soil, eh?” Mal said.
“Yes.” Ned looked back at him. “Is it all like th
is?”
“Like what?”
“So… bright and dark at the same time. Blinding sun, and shadows like drowning pools…”
“How much have you had to drink?” Mal asked, taking another sip of his own wine.
“No more than you.”
“Enough then, on an empty stomach.”
A dark-haired girl sauntered over with a flagon on her hip. As she set it down on the table, she leant forward rather further than was necessary, giving them a fine view of sun-tanned breasts plumped up by a tight-laced bodice. Smiling at Mal she slowly stepped back a pace, as if inviting him to follow. He grinned, stood up rather too quickly, and threw up his fish supper at her feet. The girl pulled a face and flounced off in search of a less inebriated sailor.
“Come on, let’s put you to bed,” Ned said, taking him by the arm.
Mal wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, took a last gulp of wine to wash away the sour taste of vomit and let himself be led away from the now-raucous party of sailors. Ned steered him around a potted olive tree, through an archway and along a short passage. At the far end was a sturdy oak door with iron staples either side and a length of timber leaning against the wall nearby. Mal stared at it for a moment, fuzzily certain there was a reason for a door being like that.
Ned fumbled with the latch for a moment before getting it open, and they stumbled through. The passageway was narrow, with blank whitewashed walls on either side that caught the moonlight so that Mal could easily see the ground ahead. Fortunate, since it still felt unsteady under his feet. He followed Ned down the passage and out into a street running along the back of the inn. Ah, that was the reason for the bar on the door. They were outside the inn.
“I think we came the wrong way,” Ned said, voicing his own thoughts. “Let’s go back.”
As they turned to retrace their steps, two men stepped out of the shadows of a doorway opposite. Mal froze, instantly far more sober than he had been moments before. Neither of the men appeared to be armed, but both were broad of shoulder and hard of eye. Mal decided he had enough aches and pains already, without adding fresh bruises to the list.
“Can I help you, gentlemen?” he asked in Occitan, the nearest dialect he knew to the local language.
The Sicilian drawled a reply; Mal could only make out something about “English”, and possibly an obscenity involving his mother and overweight poultry. To emphasis his point the Sardinian followed it up with a raised middle finger.
“Fuck yourself, sirrah!” Ned returned the gesture.
The Sardinian spat on the ground and assumed a fighter’s stance, knees slightly bent and fists at the ready. When Mal held his ground, the man made a beckoning gesture, tilting his head back. Mal caught movement out of the corner of his eye.
“Forget it, Ned,” he murmured. “Go on, back down the alley.”
“But–”
“Just do it.”
He heard rather than saw his friend comply. All his attention was on the Sardinians, who were grinning now. Mal sighed and drew his rapier.
“Go home, lads,” he said in English, circling round towards the alley mouth, “unless you want your kidneys served up on a platter.”
The Sardinians eyed the yard-long blade for a moment, then melted into the night.
“What was all that about?” Ned asked as Mal followed him down the alley to the inn door.
“Just drunkards on the lookout for trouble,” Mal replied, sheathing the rapier. Even their assassin’s unknown master could surely not have discovered them here, so far off their intended route.
He ducked through the doorway back into the inn and the safety of several dozen of his own countrymen. Rather than trust to Ned’s sense of direction he hailed a passing serving girl.
“Our room?” he asked, miming laying his head on his hands to sleep.
She smiled and gestured to herself. Mal shook his head; after what had just happened, he was reluctant to put himself in a position of vulnerability with any stranger, no matter how comely. He made the sleeping gesture again, and she pointed to an outside staircase in the far corner of the courtyard.
At the top of the stairs, Mal signalled to Ned to halt and took the lead, rapier drawn once more. Though it seemed unlikely they would meet any more trouble tonight, it never hurt to be careful. Pushing the door open with the point of the blade, he looked inside without stepping over the threshold.
Moonlight etched the bedchamber’s scant contents in lines of silver and black: a wide bed, a washstand with a basin but no ewer, and a short bench under the window. Mal kicked the door wide and entered, sweeping the rapier in an arc at waist height. No Sardinian brigands leapt out at him, however, and he beckoned for Ned to follow. A few moments later they had a candle lit and were able to assure themselves that they were alone in the room. Mal bolted the door and closed the shutters on the window.
A room to ourselves, eh? I suppose Raleigh didn’t want any more trouble between Ned and the crew, although this is just going to stir more rumours.
Ned placed the candle in a smoke-blackened niche near the bed and sat down to pull off his boots.
“Almost like home,” he said.
“Aye, it does take me back.”
Mal sat down on the bed next to his friend and pulled off his own boots, dropping them noisily on the floorboards. They both undressed to shirt and drawers and lay down side by side, staring at the ceiling. Mal groaned. The bed seemed to sway underneath him like the deck of the Falcon. He knew he ought to sit up, but it was too much effort.
“You and me. Mates again,” Ned murmured.
“Aye.”
Ned rolled over and propped himself up on one elbow. “Really?”
“Of course. Why do you think I asked you along?”
Ned leant closer. “I’ve missed you,” he said, and kissed Mal on the cheek.
Mal turned his head towards him, acutely aware now of Ned’s closeness, the warmth of another body only a finger’s breadth from his own. Ned kissed him again, on the mouth this time, and a shiver of lust passed over Mal’s skin like a hot breeze. He pulled away reluctantly.
“Don’t be a damned fool, Ned. Raleigh’s crew have already put two and two together and made five.”
Ned made a rude noise. “They’re going to think it anyway, be we chaste as virgins.”
He sat up and pulled his shirt over his head. In the candlelight his skin was smooth and golden, as flawless as Mal’s had once been, long ago.
“What about Parrish?” Mal asked, groping for another objection. He really didn’t want this. Did he?
“What about him?”
“Aren’t you and he…?”
“We have this agreement,” Ned said. He lay back down on his side, head cradled on an arm grown hard with muscle from their recent labours. “What with him disappearing off on tour with the Prince’s Men for months on end and all. Private performances for Lord This or Earl That, know what I mean? So, I don’t ask him who he’s fucked, and he doesn’t ask me. Only difference this time is, I’m the one who’s far from home.”
“I see.”
“What about you and Hendricks?”
“I told you, I’m not–”
“–interested in young boys. I know. But Hendricks isn’t a boy, is she?”
Mal stared at him. “You know about her? How?”
“Your brother told me, back in London.”
“Oh.” He muttered a curse under his breath. It had never occurred to him that Sandy might find out, or need warning not to tell anyone.
“You worried he might take your place?” Ned asked with a sly smile.
“No.” His brother only had eyes for Kiiren, that was obvious. Or rather, Erishen did. What Sandy’s feelings were on the matter, he had no idea. He swore again. Just thinking about Erishen made his head ache.
“Well, then. Forget about it.” Ned shuffled a little closer. “Anyway, you never answered my question.”
“About Coby? What do you expect me to say?
” He sighed. “She refuses to wear women’s garb, and I cannot make love to her as she is, for fear the servants would see us and gossip. I have no desire to be burned at the stake.”
Ned made a dismissive noise. “Barbarians, the lot of them. You should come back to London for good.”
He took Mal’s unresisting hand and kissed each knuckle in turn, then made his way back across the finger joints, one by one. Mal clenched his fist, then shook Ned’s hand away.
“We can’t go back to the way things were.”
“Come on, just for one night. You know you want to.” Ned ran his fingertips up the inside of Mal’s thigh, making him gasp in anticipation. “You know you want me.”
Mal closed his eyes, caught between desire and guilt, but the phantom movement of the floor made him want to throw up again. He opened his eyes, and blinked. For an instant he thought the dark-haired figure leaning over him had mottled skin and golden eyes, then the illusion passed. This was just Ned, as human as ever. Wasn’t it? Heart pounding, Mal slid his hand around Ned’s waist and down the back of his drawers.
Ned chuckled. “That’s better.”
There. The rounded end of a human spine, not the stubby tail he had feared to find. But the image persisted in his mind’s eye. Kiiren. He released Ned and pushed him away.
“Mal?”
Mal ignored him. He staggering over to the window and flung the shutters open, sucking in deep lungfuls of cool evening air to try and clear his head. What in God’s name was happening to him? Was this some vision seen through his brother’s eyes? Or were Erishen’s memories of another life surfacing once more?
He recalled Sandy’s words. Like being drunk. Could drink itself have the same effect? Was he Erishen right now? He didn’t feel any different. He stumbled over to his knapsack, pulled out the earring and with trembling fingers fastened it in place. No, still no different.
He looked down at Ned, who had turned away, the taut muscles of his back as eloquent a statement of frustration and disappointment as any words. Mal found his eyes tracing the lines of the other man’s shoulder-blades, down his spine to… No, he could not blame Erishen for his own feelings towards Ned.