She wasted no time. "Now, then, who are you?" she asked. "You clean up nicely. But I have never seen blue, glowing blood before. It's quite unique."
Tristan thought for a moment. Something inside still made him reticent about telling her who he was. But he suspected that if he was ever going to get home, he would probably have to be at least partly honest with her. Taking a deep breath, he looked intently into her eyes.
"I am Tristan, crown prince of Eutracia," he said firmly. "Son of Nicholas and Morganna, now dead. My blood glows because I am of the craft of magic."
This time the captain's smile was followed by outright, derisive laughter. "But of course you are! The crown prince-here on my ship! How amazing! Perhaps I should bow!"
He scowled. "You don't believe me."
Her face suddenly became more serious. "Actually, I do," she answered. Opening a drawer, she produced a parchment. It was rolled up and tied with a ribbon. She casually tossed it across the desk. Reaching out, Tristan took it and opened it.
It was a copy of one of the wanted posters of him that his son Nicholas had ordered distributed across Eutracia before he died at the Gates of Dawn. Tristan looked back up at her.
"It's a good likeness, don't you think?" she asked. "And we've recovered some weapons like those shown in the portrait." She paused for a moment, thinking. "This proves an interesting situation, I must say. I might just turn you in and claim the reward myself. One hundred thousand kisa is a great deal of money, and my men have not been paid in some time."
Tristan tossed the awful warrant back onto her desk. "I'm sorry to disappoint you, but the reward no longer exists," he answered. "The one who was distributing the posters is now dead."
"Really?" she asked. It was clear she remained unconvinced. "What happened to him?"
Tristan's jaw hardened. "I found him first."
Unperturbed, the captain put one long leg up on the desk, then crossed the other over it. Reaching out, she grasped an ornate, inlaid wooden box and pulled it toward her. From the box she produced a cigarillo rolled of some type of dark plant leaf. Pulling an oil lamp near, she placed the tube in her mouth, lit the end, and blew the smoke down through her nose. Finally she looked back at him.
"From what city were you taken?" she asked. "And tell me, is it really true that you murdered your own father, and also oversaw the murders of the entire Directorate of Wizards, as this poster says? My, my, but you have been a bad boy. You might fit in well here."
Tristan was growing angrier by the moment. Despite the fact that she had saved him and the other slaves, that wasn't enough to make him trust her. He was tired of her insults, and he desperately wanted some answers of his own.
"You first," he said. "Who in the name of the Afterlife are you? And what gives you the right to fly my battle flag?"
Calmly drawing in more smoke, she raised her face and blew it toward the ceiling. As she did, Tristan watched it disappear into the salt-laden air. "I am Teresa of the House of Welborne," she answered calmly. "My friends call me Tyranny."
"Tyranny?"
"Yes." She smiled. "Apparently I was quite a handful when I was growing up. My late father jokingly bastardized 'Teresa' into 'Tyranny,' and it stuck. My mother never forgave him. But then again, I always was more tomboy than dainty little girl."
Leaning forward in his chair, Tristan decided to press. "You're looking for someone, aren't you?" he asked. "That's why you and your ships are out here, plowing up and down the Sea of Whispers. It's also why you lined up all the slaves-in hopes of finding whoever it is you're looking for."
He could tell he had struck a nerve. But he also realized that if he ever wanted to get home, now might be a good time for some flattery.
"And by the way," he added quietly, "the blood I saw on the hilt of your sword tells me that you do more than simply give orders. Well done."
Tyranny's eyes narrowed. "You catch on quickly," she answered. "My older brother was taken by the demonslavers one night. Both my parents were killed trying to fight them off and give me time to escape. We lived in Farpoint-where most of the slaving activity seems to be taking place. My father owned the largest fleet of fishing vessels in the city, and I used to work with him. I have been looking for my brother ever since, and I won't stop until I find him."
"That explains your familiarity with these waters," Tristan mused. "And Scars?" he asked. "I have never seen anyone quite like him. Where did he come from?"
"Scars was one of my father's most trusted employees," she answered. "We grew up together. He got his wounds and his huge muscles from wrestling live sharks out of the sea for fun, from my father's boats. He loved my father dearly, and he would die for me. And he can tear a demonslaver apart with his bare hands."
"Tell me," Tristan asked, "do you know how to safely cross the Sea of Whispers? Have you ever done so?"
"I do know," she answered. "And we have. We tortured the information out of one of the captured demonslavers. They're a tough lot, but time spent with Scars can be very effective. It seems that with the death of the Coven of Sorceresses, the Necrophagians are now willing to accept their grisly tribute from anyone who wants to cross-provided the dead bodies are sufficient in number, of course. We used the demonslaver bodies as payment, but we have only done so once. And I certainly don't recommend it." Casually, she lifted her glass and took a sip of wine.
"Would you like some?" she asked, and nodded toward an empty glass. It seemed her demeanor was starting to soften.
Too thirsty to stand on ceremony, Tristan took the glass and poured himself some wine. He drank it down in a single draft, then poured another and sat back in his chair.
"Where did this crew of yours come from?" he asked. "How do you pay them? And how did you come by these ships?"
"My crew is a combination of my father's old employees and other men who asked to join us after my reputation began to grow," she answered. "As you might imagine, many of them are also looking for lost friends or relatives, and what better way to do it than this? They have become a ruthless and determined lot, I can assure you." Pausing, she took another sip of the wine, then another lungful of smoke. She hissed what remained of the smoke toward the ceiling.
"As for their pay and food, both come from the kisa and provisions usually given us by grateful family members, when we return their loved ones to them," she continued. "I don't demand such payment, but I don't refuse it, either. After all, this operation has to run on something besides altruism, wouldn't you agree? How I got my ships is another story. The first belonged to my father. We renamed her The People's Revenge and went from there. The two other frigates that now sail alongside us are both slaver conquests."
Tristan stared at her, even further impressed by this strong-willed woman. He thought for a moment, and then decided to take a risk.
"Do you know a man named Krassus, or a woman named Grizelda?" he asked. "Or have you ever heard of documents called the Scrolls of the Ancients?"
Tyranny shook her head.
"Have you ever encountered a slave named Wulfgar?"
"No," she answered. "Why do you ask?"
"They're people and things I am searching for, much the same way you search for your brother," he said as nonchalantly as he could. He decided to change the subject. "Do you know why these demonslavers are taking our people?" Again she shook her head. Then Tristan thought of something else.
"Have you ever heard of a place called the Citadel?" he asked. He fully expected her to say she had not, but her face darkened.
"Not only have I heard of it, but I have seen it," she answered solemnly. "It's an island to the east, with a huge stone fortress atop it-a massive, forbidding place hewn directly from the living rock that makes up the island. It looks ancient. We learned of its location from a captured demonslaver. I have even charted its location on my maps. We decided to go there, and actually got to within half a league of it before being forced to turn back. The waters surrounding the Citadel are swarming with slaver shi
ps. After they saw us, we came about and barely got away with our lives."
It was clear that despite her bravado, Tyranny's experience with the Citadel had had a strong effect upon her. And Tristan was by now quite sure she was a woman who was not easily frightened. Fascinated, he leaned forward in his chair.
"Could you lead another fleet there if you had to?" he asked eagerly. "Do you really know the way?"
"Of course," she answered. "I know this ocean as well as anyone alive. But hear me well: Going there is blatant suicide."
Tristan looked at her for a long moment, absorbing all that he had just heard. The breeze from the open windows wafted through the room, gently moving her scruffy dark hair, and her blue eyes continued to regard him with confidence. A slight smile came to his lips. "So you're really a pirate?" he asked.
Tyranny smiled. "We prefer to think of ourselves as privateers, doing the work that the vanquished monarchy no longer can. We would, of course, prefer to do so under authenticated letters of marque, but the king and the wizards who might have granted them to us are now all dead."
"Letters of marque?" Tristan repeated quizzically.
"For the crown prince of Eutracia, you don't seem to know much about your own history," she quipped. "Letters of marque were papers granted by the wizards to privateers during the Sorceresses' War. These documents gave official sanction to the raiding of the Coven's vessels and the killing of their servants. They also allowed the privateer to legally keep a portion of any of the booty recovered. It was a very nice arrangement, actually. The wizards didn't have to dirty their hands, and a brave, enterprising privateer could do very well. It was almost impossible to take a ship that had a sorceress aboard, of course. But if one could be found manned only by blood stalkers or unendowed humans who had been pressed into the Coven's service, it could be a great prize indeed, for the sorceresses' ships often carried treasure. But those days are long gone, I'm afraid."
"How do you know all of this?" Tristan asked.
"Some of the original privateers of the Sorceresses' War were my forebears," she answered, then inhaled more of the smoke. Leaning back, she arched her back like a cat and adjusted her slim frame slightly in the chair. "When the war ended, their continuing love for the ocean turned them into fishermen. Not as exciting, but infinitely safer. You also might enjoy knowing that the Resolve, the vessel the lead wizard supposedly used to banish the Coven to the Sea of Whispers, was owned by the last of my privateering grandfathers and was loaned to the newly formed Directorate for just that purpose. Her ship's wheel was taken from her and handed down through the generations. It means a great deal to me, and is now the same one that guides this ship."
Tristan smiled and shook his head. "And you run my battle flag," he mused. "The lion and the broadsword. Where did you get it?"
"That was simple," she replied. "Unfortunately, since the destruction caused by the Coven, your flag can often be found needful of a place to fly. Besides, what other banner should we run in our fight against the demonslavers? I love my country."
Leaning forward, Tristan placed his glass on the desk. He wasn't sure he could trust her, but he had no other choice. He looked meaningfully into Tyranny's wide, blue eyes.
"How would you like to make more kisa than you've ever seen in your entire life?" he asked quietly.
"Just now you're in no position to pay such a sum," she answered. "And you're in no position to ask for any favors, either." Another puff of bluish smoke poured out her nose.
"But my wizards are," he answered. "And all you would have to do is take me to the Cavalon Delta and release me. From there, you and I could easily make our way to Tammerland, where you would be paid. No harm would befall you, and my wizards would be most appreciative, I assure you. With a word from me, they could conjure enough kisa to sink this ship; certainly more than enough to allow you to continue to look for your brother, and to do so for as long as you need to. We might even be able to help you find him."
Tyranny removed her long legs from the desk and sat upright in her chair. She ran a quick hand through her short hair, tousling it even further. "The wizards are all dead; everybody knows that," she answered skeptically, shaking her head. "This is just a trick to secure your release."
"The reported deaths of the wizards were not entirely true," Tristan countered. "Wigg, the lead wizard, still lives. As does another named Faegan. In fact, I believe they would be happy to hear about what you have been doing. I might even be able to convince them to give you your letters of marque and recognize you officially, if it means that much to you."
Then he sat back, desperately hoping his offer was enough. He simply had to get back to Tammerland and give the wizards the scrap of parchment hidden in his boot.
He could see that Tyranny was sorely tempted.
"If I were to do this thing, my price would be the one hundred thousand kisa that were supposedly offered by the warrant," she said craftily. "And I would also require some form of collateral against the possibility that you're lying. In that regard, I think the medallion hanging around your neck would do nicely. The quality of its gold appears to be particularly high. Melted down, it would go a long way toward convincing me."
Tristan looked down at the medallion. He saw that he had little other choice. He looked back up at Tyranny with determined eyes.
"I agree," he said quietly. "But I have conditions."
"Conditions?" Tyranny asked. "I could just have Scars come in and take the medallion from you, you know, then set sail for any place I choose."
"Yes," he answered. "But I don't think you will. Something about honor among thieves."
Silence reigned for a moment, their eyes locked together in a battle of wills.
"What are your conditions?" she asked finally, leaning her arms on the desk.
"No detours-we sail directly to the Cavalon Delta," he answered. "If other slave ships are sighted on the way, you do not engage them. You are also to return my weapons to me, and keep my real identity a secret on this ship. In addition, when we reach the palace you will draw a chart for my wizards, showing them the exact location of the Citadel. And there is one other thing," he added.
Tyranny's blue eyes narrowed. It was clear she wasn't used to demands. "And that is?"
"You allow me to wear my medallion until our business is concluded, either one way or another."
Tyranny leaned back in her chair. "You demand a great deal," she said.
"One hundred thousand kisa is a great deal of money," he answered. He purposely let his words hang in the air for a moment. "From our current position, how long before we could reach the delta?"
She looked down at one of her charts. "If the winds hold, six days."
Silence engulfed the room. Tristan held his breath, wondering what her answer would be.
Finally she stood. Raising her right hand, she spat into her palm and held it out. "Done," she said. Standing up as well, Tristan looked at her quizzically.
"It's the way a privateer's bargain was sealed in the old days," Tyranny said with a wry smile. "And it remains the best." She held her hand out a bit farther.
Smiling, Tristan spat into his right hand, and took hers into it. "And done," he answered back. For the first time since entering the room, he thought he might be able to trust her. But only time would tell.
Tyranny pulled a small piece of parchment toward her, took up a quill, and began to write out their agreement. She handed it over to Tristan, and he read it. Like its author, it came straight to the point. Picking up the quill, Tristan signed it with a false name, then handed it back to her.
Studying the fresh signature, Tyranny raised an eyebrow. "This is not who you said you were."
"I also told you that I did not want your crew to know who I am," Tristan replied calmly. "You've already shown me the warrant and threatened to turn me in for the reward. What kind of fool would I be if I added my real signature to your documents, as well? Don't worry-there's no place for me to run to. When y
ou come before my wizards, you will have your kisa, I assure you. And if I'm lying, you and that monster first mate of yours can easily kill me. You still have a fortune to win and nothing to lose. Take it or leave it."
After thinking for a moment, Tyranny finally countersigned the agreement, folded the parchment, and slipped it between her breasts. She then called for Scars. The double doors blew open, and the giant was by her side in a flash.
"Return this man's weapons to him," she ordered. "He is one of us now. And change course for the Cavalon Delta at full sail. We have new business there." Then she looked at Tristan.
"Here's the first rule of The People's Revenge," she said. "If you are going to eat our food, you must work for it-regardless of what other circumstances might prevail between us. Scars, take him topside and feed him. Then give him something to do. Perhaps we can make a privateer out of him yet."
"Agreed," Tristan answered.
Without further fanfare, Scars escorted the prince from the room.
Standing, Tyranny went to the windows and looked out on the restless sea. Sensing The People's Revenge heel over to her new course, she smiled.
CHAPTER
Twenty-five
T wenty-Nine watched as his fellow slave pounded the hammer down on the glowing strip of red-hot metal. Then he heard the hiss and saw the steam rise as the man plunged the strip back into the brackish water, tempering it again. The emerging blade would soon become the business end of a short sword and be added to the heap of homely but effective weapons already lying in the far corner of the room.
Other slaves went about fashioning hilts and guards, while still others sharpened and polished the blades. Then the parts would be assembled into the double-edged, razor-sharp swords carried by the demonslavers. On the opposite side of the room, another group of slaves sat fashioning leather into scabbards and baldrics. Periodically a slaver would come in to choose a weapon from the pile of new swords, and tridents.
Twenty-Nine hung his head, still unable to believe that he was plying his craft-which had always been his pride and his passion-for the benefit of these evil monsters.
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