by Anne Lyle
The captain stared into the middle distance for a long moment, running his tongue around one fang thoughtfully.
“Very well,” he said at last. “I will take you to Venice, and you will bring this other brother to me.”
Coby nodded, though she had no intention of doing so. “And you will take the spirit-guard from Sandy?”
“That remains to be seen. How do I know I can trust him not to turn on me and my crew?”
“He wishes to be with his brother, more than anything in the world. And the sooner you take that thing off him, the saner he will be, and the less likely to harm you.”
“I will order my men to do so, and to replace your bonds with ones less confining.” He stepped around the cushions so that he was only an arm’s length away. “But I warn you, human. If you pay back my kindness with treachery, I shall throw all three of you into the ocean without a second thought. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
One moment he was gasping for breath, pulse hammering in his ears; the next, his lungs filled with air and he was blinking away salt water. Had he been rescued from drowning? Two pairs of eyes, grey as the sea in winter, blue as summer sky, stared down at him. Human eyes.
“Sandy?”
That was what they called this incarnation, wasn’t it? He drew breath and whispered: “Hä. Yes.”
“Thank God.” The grey-eyed one, the girl, lifted his hand and kissed it.
“Something is wrong?”
“No, no. You had a seizure, and we feared you might hurt yourself.”
He tasted metal now, as well as salt. The young man, Gabriel, helped him to sit up. Erishen spat blood on the deck, squinting as a bright yellow light loomed before his eyes. Gentle fingers took hold of his jaw and examined his mouth.
“Nothing worse than a bitten tongue,” the owner of the hands said.
It was a moment before Erishen realised his examiner had spoken in Vinlandic. The light receded, and he made out the features of an ancient skrayling with faded clan markings on his cheeks and forehead.
“Hennaq–” Erishen looked around. So, still in the hold. “Where is that misbegotten son of a raccoon?”
“Calm yourself, honoured one, or you will have another seizure.”
“I’m fine.”
He got to his feet, too quickly. The world pivoted and he stumbled, banging his elbow painfully against the mast as he tried to steady himself.
“Please, sir, sit down,” the girl said, catching hold of his other arm.
He allowed her to help him back down, irksome as it was to display such weakness in front of others.
“I thought I saw you captured and bound, both of you.” He looked from one to the other.
“I… made a deal with the captain.” She stared pointedly at the old skrayling, who clicked his tongue but packed his medicine chest and left them. When they were alone, she told Erishen about Hennaq’s plan to take them all back to the New World, and how she had persuaded him to go after Mal instead.
“You–” He lunged for her, knocking her down onto the deck.
Gabriel caught him by the arm. “Dammit, Sandy–”
Erishen turned and snarled at him, and the actor backed off, hands held up defensively. The girl took advantage of the distraction to twist underneath him, trying to throw him off. He caught hold of her wrists, but she brought her knee up between his legs. Erishen howled.
“Stop it!” Gabriel fell to his knees and tried to push them apart. “Look at the two of you, fighting like dogs in the street. How does that help Mal, or any of us?”
Erishen shot him a warning look, but the man was right. With a sigh he released the girl. Hendricks, that was her name. She scooted away across the deck until her back was against a stack of crates and crouched there, eyeing him sullenly.
“You really think I would betray Mal?” she said in a low voice. She glanced up towards the hatch, then back at Erishen.
“Then what do you intend to do when we get to Venice?” he replied, matching her tone. She was right; Hennaq could have set someone to spy on them, and some of his men likely knew English, even if they refused to speak such an effete tongue.
“I don’t know yet,” she said. “But it’s still going to take us several weeks to get there. We’re bound to come up with a plan by then.”
Erishen made a noncommittal noise. The three of them against a shipful of skraylings? He did not like those odds at all.
CHAPTER XIV
Hiring enough crew in Cagliari to get them to Venice proved difficult, especially once the name of their captain got about. Many of the locals were reluctant to sign on with the man who had time and again led victorious forces against their Spanish overlords, nor was Raleigh keen to hire them. In fact their captain proved to be so choosy about whom he would consider, Mal despaired of ever reaching their destination.
“Raleigh knows the urgency of our mission,” he said for the hundredth time. He and Ned were sitting on the harbour wall, watching Master Warburton supervise the repairs. “We need a full crew, or…”
“Or what?” Ned asked.
“Or we leave here on another ship. Today.”
“Today? Why today?”
“Why not today? At this rate, the skraylings could have completed their negotiations and be on their way back to Sark by the time we reach Venice.”
“Or they could still be cooling their heels in the… What did you say the ruler was called again?”
“The Doge.”
“Aye, him. Anyway they could still be cooling their heels in this Doge’s antechamber,” Ned replied. “Or on their way home with nothing to show for it. We won’t know until we speak to Lord Kiiren.”
“If he’ll even tell me.”
“I thought you two were friends.” Ned snickered. “Practically brothers-in-law.”
“I thought so too,” Mal replied, ignoring the jibe. “But if so, why was he so secretive about this mission? Did he think I was spying on him?”
“You are spying on him.”
“Well, yes, but…” He shook his head. “There’s something else going on, just like there was back in London.”
“Such as?”
“I have no idea. Last time, Kiiren was trying to hide the truth about Sandy and me from his kinsmen. As to what he’s hiding this time…” He shrugged.
He took out Walsingham’s second letter, which he had taken to carrying in his pocket at all times. A name and directions were written on the outside:
Sr. G. Berowne
Salizada San Pantalon
Venezia
Mal wondered what the ambassador was like. A country knight of no account, perhaps, sent overseas to serve his Queen with few thanks and fewer rewards. Much like Mal’s own father. He was tempted to cut the seal, but doubtless there was nothing of real interest in there anyway, since Walsingham would expect him to open it.
“Ahoy there! Catlyn!”
Mal turned to see Raleigh waving at him.
“What does he want?” Ned muttered.
“I suspect we are about to find out.” He jumped down from the harbour wall and strode towards Raleigh. “Sir?”
“You mentioned you are acquainted with a sea-captain in Marseille.”
“Aye, that’s true.”
“Good. I want you on the next ship thence. Bring me back carpenters and crew, as many as you can.” He pressed a heavy purse into Mal’s hand.
“Aye, sir. Thank you, sir.”
Raleigh frowned at him. “I’m not doing it for you. I need my ship repaired, and these damned Sardinians are worse than useless. I fear the governor has sent out word that we are not to be helped.”
“Surely it’s in his interest to see the back of us.”
“It would be, unless he’s stalling because he’s sent for Spanish reinforcements to capture us.”
“You think that likely?”
“I think it is not wise to discount it. And you are, I’ll warrant, as anxious to be done here as I.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Then get to it. There’s a ship sailing north this afternoon.”
Mal bowed and headed back to the inn, Ned trailing at his heels.
“Of course,” Ned said as they crossed the market square, “we could just take Raleigh’s money and sail to Venice on the next boat heading east, like you said.”
“We could, but we’re not going to.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t need Raleigh as an enemy. I have enough of those already.”
“Who is this friend of yours?” Ned asked as they disembarked in Marseille.
The harbour was thick with fishing boats, and the skies even thicker with gulls. They picked their way around piles of netting, baskets of silver anchovies and dark blue mussels, and squirming sacks of live octopus.
“His name’s Youssef,” Mal replied. “A Moorish merchant.”
“You, dealing with a heathen? I thought you fought in the wars against them, the Moors or Turks or whoever?”
“So I did, years ago. But the French have allied themselves with the Ottoman Empire against the Hapsburgs, and men like Youssef can pass easily between Christendom and the Barbary Coast.”
“He’s a spy?”
“No.” Mal caught his arm. “And do not imply any such thing within his hearing. Not if you wish to go home with all your members intact.”
The Hayreddin stood at anchor at the end of the quay, its triangular sails reefed and its oars drawn in with only their blades protruding from the rowlocks. Men were carrying barrels up the gangplank in a steady stream, then jogging back down empty-handed.
“I thought you said he was a merchant,” Ned said in a low voice as they drew nearer. “That looks a lot like the ship that attacked us.”
“Oared vessels are common in the Mediterranean. The seas are gentler, and slaves plentiful.”
“Slaves? Are you sure he’s not a corsair?”
Mal laughed. “Calm yourself. There are no slaves aboard the Hayreddin. Captain Youssef considers them an unnecessary expense, since God provides the wind for free. The oars are for manoeuvring into harbour, that is all.” Well, mostly all.
Ned muttered something under his breath.
“Of course,” Mal added, “if you’d rather be imprisoned by the Spanish…”
“No. It’s just… not what I expected. Your life in France, I mean.”
“You thought France was exactly like England, only with more wine and garlic?”
Ned pulled a face. “Now you’re mocking me.”
Captain Youssef greeted them courteously in French and invited them into his cabin, where he served them sweet mint tea and honeyed pastries. Mal told him about the attack on the Falcon and his own need to reach Venice as quickly as possible.
“Perhaps the ship is not so badly damaged,” Youssef said. “Danziger’s a good shipwright, inshaallah he would have it repaired in no time.”
“Perhaps. But if he cannot?”
“Then you have a difficulty,” Youssef said, leaning back in his seat. “Is the baklava not to your liking?”
Mal glanced down at the half-eaten pastry, fearing he had offended his host.
“It’s very good, but the sea has not agreed with my stomach.”
“Has it ever?” Youssef laughed. “Your companion there seems little afflicted.”
They both looked over at Ned, who was licking the last crumbs of pastry from his fingers. Glutton, Mal mouthed at him. Ned had the grace to look sheepish, and put down his empty plate with an apology.
“Tell him he may have as many pieces as he wishes,” Youssef said. “He looks as though he needs a good meal.”
Mal translated the first part, and after a moment Ned loaded his plate and settled back to enjoy this rare luxury. Mal turned back to Youssef and cleared his throat.
“We have not known one another long, sir,” he said, “and yet I feel I can call you a friend.”
Youssef inclined his head in acknowledgement.
“And, as a friend,” Mal went on, “I hope you will consider a humble request. You do owe me a favour, after all.”
Youssef leaned forward, but it was only to pour more tea.
“Was helping you rescue the child of the painted ones not enough?”
“I thought it more of a… down payment. After all, I did save your life that one time. Or was it twice? Anyway, surely that’s worth more than one skrayling boy?”
“It was once. The second time was by Allah’s blessing. And it was your manservant’s doing, in any case.”
“It was a lucky shot,” Mal conceded. “Though I had to buy Madame Félice a new warming-pan.”
“I doubt she needs you to warm her bed, my friend. So.” He leaned back in his seat. “What is this great favour that will wipe out my debt?”
“Will you take me back to Sardinia on the Hayreddin, and if the Falcon cannot be repaired soon enough for my needs, would you take me on to Venice?”
Youssef appeared to consider the request for a moment.
“To the first part, yes. I was going to leave port in a day or so in any case.”
Mal began to smile, but Youssef held up his hand.
“I am sorry, my friend, but I am bound for al-Jaza’ir. I have a cargo of pitch and timber in my hold, and a buyer waiting.”
“You could take it to Venice instead,” Mal replied. He sipped the scalding tea. “The Republic always has need of shipbuilding materials.”
Youssef spat on the deck. “I would as soon sell my cargo to the Spanish.”
“That would make a pleasant change. As I recall you stole your last cargo from them.”
Youssef’s eyes narrowed, then he burst out laughing.
“Very true. But I still don’t see why I should help you.”
Mal lowered his voice. One never knew who was listening.
“I am on a mission to discover the Venetians’ plans for regaining influence in the Mediterranean,” he said. “Is that not worth a little of your time?”
Youssef shrugged. “The empire has been at peace with Venice for a generation. Who am I to stick my oar in those waters?”
Mal raised his tea glass to the light, admiring the delicate pattern of gilding around its waist. Only the Venetians made glass this fine.
“Peace has its benefits,” he said. “Trade with old enemies, for one.”
“You do not give up easily, do you, Englishman?”
Mal suppressed a smile. The tide turns.
“And then of course there is Raleigh’s ship, the Falcon,” he added. “Even now, the Spanish may be closing in on Cagliari.”
Youssef grinned, his dark eyes glinting like Sandy’s obsidian blade.
“Now you are talking, my friend. It will be my pleasure to snatch such a prize from the grasp of my old enemy – and yours.”
As they neared Cagliari, Youssef sent all his lookouts aloft to keep an eye out for the Spanish. Ned half-expected to find the Falcon taken, but as they entered the harbour he spotted the galleon at anchor where they had left it. Still, it would not do to be seen coming to Raleigh’s rescue, so he and Mal disguised themselves as members of Youssef’s crew in baggy calf-length breeches and canvas shirts, barefoot and with kerchiefs tied about their heads. Mal even removed his earring and stowed it in his discarded boot; the black pearl was too distinctive and valuable a bauble to be worn by a lowly sailor.
Captain Youssef chose a berth not too far from the Falcon, from which vantage point they were able to see Raleigh’s crew at work on the repairs. There was no sign of Spanish soldiers on board.
“A pity,” Ned muttered. “I should have liked to see that bastard Hansford taken by the Spanish. With any luck they’d hang him, like his assassin friend.”
“You’d rather travel with Youssef, then?” Mal said with a smile as they disembarked.
Ned shrugged. “He’s all right, for a foreigner.”
They blended into a group of sailors leaving one of the other ships, then slipped down a si
de-alley and headed for the inn where Raleigh was staying.
Ned trailed after Mal, still feeling a little queasy. The rich pastries had sat like a stone in his stomach on the journey back from Marseille, and it had taken all his self-control not to throw them up again. To make matters worse, when they found Raleigh in the inn’s courtyard he was smoking his foul pipe and playing cards with Warburton and Hansford. Ned wasn’t sure which of the two made his stomach curdle the most. He wandered over to stand in the shade by a potted olive tree whilst Mal told Raleigh about their business in Marseille.
Raleigh’s face darkened, and the two sailors put down their cards.
“A damned Turk?” Raleigh bellowed. “You may go with him if you will, but I shall stay with the Falcon – and have my gold back.”
Mal replied in placating tones and sat down on the bench next to Raleigh. The captain glowered at first, but his expression softened at every word and eventually he smiled and nodded. They shook hands and Mal came over to Ned’s shady corner.
“You persuaded him to go with us?” Ned said as they headed up to their chamber.
“I reminded him that the Queen herself had commanded this service. I also suggested that, when we get to Venice, he puts it about that he captured the Hayreddin in a mighty sea-battle. There are enough Christians in Youssef’s crew to make it look like the truth, if we have them all manning the ship when we arrive.”
Ned chuckled.
“You’ve turned quite the cunning rascal, you know that?”
“I learned from the best,” Mal replied with a grin.
Ned hid his delight at this compliment with an elaborate bow. If only some of that persuasive power could be his, the remainder of this voyage would be a lot more enjoyable.
“Monsieur Catlyn! Monsieur Catlyn!”
Mal levered himself up on his elbow and squinted at the door.
“Who is it?”
He got to his feet and gingerly crossed the rough floor. The voice came again. Mal wrenched the door open and was almost hit in the face by a frantic sailor.
“What is it?”
“Monsieur! Captain Youssef sent me to fetch you. The Spanish have been sighted, four galleons flying the royal ensign.”