Kidd had seen Bay many times, but hadn’t spoken to him. Bay stood almost seven feet tall, was powerfully muscled and managed an oar by himself. Even with his oversized hands, Kidd was dwarfed.
Bay grinned at Kidd with both rows of teeth, pearly and bright against his charcoal skin. He leaned down, rested his elbow on the bench, and flexed his fingers. Kidd looked at Bay’s tree-trunk arm and realised he had been challenged to arm-wrestle. “You got to earn the right to sit here.”
Kidd kept his grip firmly fixed on the oar. “I don’t want to draw attention to myself.”
The oarsman sitting behind Kidd leaned over and whispered in his ear. “I’d accept if I were you. Bay is easily offended, and the boys like to have a wager now and again.”
Kidd didn’t fancy testing his strength against this man. “I think the outcome is assured.”
The sailor gave a blackened grin. “Oh, we don’t expect you to win. We bet on how long it takes for Bay to snap your arm from your body.”
Bay continued to smile and flex his hand. “C’mon, Englishman, show me what you’re made of.”
Whispers spread like fire around them, until someone yelled, “Bay’s goin’ to wrestle the English!” Every head turned in their direction and immediately coins began to change hands. Six French soldiers descended onto the deck, intrigued by the commotion. Kidd put his head down, rested his elbow on the bench, and fitted his hand into Bay’s enormous palm. More money changed hands and there was more excited chatter. Out of the corner of his eye, Kidd saw the French soldiers mobbed by the oarsmen, urging them to place a bet or move out of the way. One soldier even reached for his purse. The lieutenant barked a curt order in French.
Bay winked. “The Captain made me promise not to hurt you too bad. I let you start when you ready.”
Kidd took a few deep breaths and the crowd quietened. Unfortunate they’d captured the attention of the French soldiers. He gave thanks for the supple leather gloves that concealed his metal fingers and the size of Bay’s hand. He gripped the Moor’s hand tight, and pushed hard. The veins in his forehead bulged as he met the resistance of Bay’s arm. It felt like he was wrestling a mountain.
Surprisingly, Bay looked uncomfortable with the hardness of Kidd’s grip. Kidd tested a theory and closed his hand tighter. Bay grunted uncomfortably and Kidd understood he had a slim chance of winning the contest even though the Moor was stronger. He held his arm in place as best he could and concentrated on squeezing Bay’s hand.
The match grew in intensity even though the pair remained motionless, the only spectacle the sweat dripping from their brows. A hush descended on the watchers. With the pain in his hand, Bay seemed unable to exert his massive strength over Kidd, but he wasn’t about to concede either. Kidd continued to hold the Moor in the stalemate, knowing he had no chance of winning the contest by the strength of his arm. Kidd’s arm passed beyond the point of pain and became numb. Bay pushed hard to finish the match. Kidd responded by squeezing the soft flesh between the Moor’s thumb and forefinger. Bay grunted and released the pressure. More money changed hands as bets were won and lost.
Kidd risked a glance into the crowd. The French soldiers had lost interest and moved on. He allowed his arm to collapse. After all, he’d achieved a victory of sorts.
Bay pushed Kidd’s arm to the wooden bench and released his grip immediately so he could shake the blood back into his hand. The onlookers swamped both competitors with an intense debate about winnings and losses.
“Thank you,” Kidd said under the hubbub. “That was an excellent distraction.”
Bay grinned. “You let me win. It wasn’t a fair contest. You have earned the right to sit at me oar, but I also challenge you to a rematch.”
Kidd massaged his aching biceps as best he could with a metal glove. “I accept, but my arm will need time to recover.”
They waited another hour before the French soldiers marched down the boarding ramp empty-handed. Kidd hurried to the deck where Flint was stowed. Kemal had already pushed the bunk aside to access the concealed booth. There was a lot of thumping and shouting. Flint had woken from his long sleep. “Hell and damnation,” he yelled as the trapdoor opened. “I thought I’d been buried alive!”
Kidd helped him from the hold. “The French were looking for us. We had to stow you away.”
Flint squinted at him. “Last I remember we were sitting in a prison. Hell, my leg hurts.”
“You’re lucky to be alive,” said Kidd. “We both are.”
~ Chapter 22 ~
OFF COURSE
The city-port of Syracuse, in the Kingdom of Sicily
It took three days for the French to abandon their search. Not a soul dared to go ashore during that time, not even for fresh water. Finally La Fortresse hauled her great anchor from the water and set sail for the open sea, taking The Caretaker with her. Kidd didn’t envy him the duty of giving testimony to François.
“Hah! Good riddance.” Flint spat in the direction of the departing galleon. “That’s the last we’ll see of them.” He had remained close to Kidd during his recovery and grew stronger with each passing day. He was more resilient than his frail appearance suggested.
Kidd frowned. “That remains to be seen. I had to take desperate measures while we were shut in The Caretaker’s jail. You needed a physician or you would have died. I traded information for your life.”
“Haven’t you learned your lesson?” Flint shook his head. “There was a reason the Spymaster trained us to handle certain situations in specific ways. My life was not worth trading had you led the French to The Tears. You should have let me die, just as you should have let Henry cut off my head.”
“I need you. And anyway, that was different.”
Flint looked curiously sane and sober. “Was it now? So, what kind of mess have you got us into now? How much did you tell that slimy bastard?”
“Nothing vital, only that we were bound for the Ottoman Empire. The Caretaker knows a lot about Lawrence and The Tears. He would’ve seen through a lie. I’ll wager we’ll meet the French again before this is done.”
“You’re a damned fool.”
“As I said, I didn’t mention anything important, such as this.” Kidd reached into his pocket and pulled out the medallion he’d prised from Lawrence’s dead fingers. “I found it in Lawrence’s hand. Any idea what it is?”
Flint peered at the engravings. “The writing is old, Persian by the look. It’ll take me some time to translate.” A grin appeared in the corner of his mouth and he ran his finger along a row of characters at the outer edge. “If this medallion belonged to Faruq, it’ll be the equivalent of his family signet ring and bear his full name and title. Our list of murder suspects just got a lot shorter. I still think you’re a damned fool though.”
Eventually the black speck of La Fortresse vanished over the horizon. Harissa sent a gang of sailors into the city to replenish their supplies and hastened the final repairs to the Masala. When she was satisfied they were as well-prepared as possible, she emptied a bottle of wine on the bow for luck, and the Masala cast off for the lands of the Ottoman Empire. The sky remained clear and Ramiro found a strong breeze. For many hours they were able to travel under the power of sail alone, and save the strength of the oarsmen. The repairs, though done with haste, appeared to hold and the Masala sliced through the waves.
Flint disappeared with the medallion below decks. Kidd went in search of Harissa, eager to find out how she planned to negotiate the busy trade route to Beirut. He found her pouring over a large map in her quarters. It was penned with much fine detail, worthy of an admiral’s study. It depicted Europe and many far-off lands, including the Muscovite Dominion and the Ottoman Empire. He wondered how she had acquired such a chart. “That must have cost a pretty penny!”
“Aye, it belonged to my father. It’s old and the borders of each kingdom have moved more than once since it was drawn, but it’s still accurate enough.” She had fondness in her voice as she spoke. “He w
as a sea captain, hauling goods to and from the Barbary States. When my mother died he refused to have me adopted by another family. He cut my hair short and took me aboard his ship as his son. He was a good man, even though he traded slaves.”
“What happened?”
“They conspired against him. Men are not meant to live in chains and shackles. When they struck, they were merciless. They killed the crew to a man, including my father, before taking his ship for their own. I managed to jettison myself in a barrel with nothing but this map.”
“And now you’re the captain of another vessel. Why?”
“I wouldn’t survive long on land. This is the only life I’ve ever known. There are no slaves aboard the Masala and there never will be while I remain her captain. The men who sail her live a free life.”
Kidd studied the map. From Cyprus they would make the final leg into the heart of The Ottoman Empire. It would be a long journey, and it was not certain that The Tears were there. Time was against him, but it always had been, even when he was a spy. No mission was risk free. He recalled the Spymaster’s guidance. “Take action, gamble if you must, but always take action.”
Harissa plotted their course with her finger. “There are safer routes to travel, but you don’t have the time for such a long journey. We’ll point our bow south and hope we don’t run into trouble, then due east. That’ll take us past the Kingdom of Sicily where we can make landfall at need. From there we’ll sail on to Crete and Cyprus. Both are treacherous places, but they’re under Venetian control, and I’ve never met a Venetian that didn’t want to trade. Set your worries aside. We’ll make landfall in two weeks or so without unforeseeable delays.”
Harissa’s words were little comfort. Kidd thanked her anyway and departed, desiring to be alone with his thoughts for the present. He watched the Masala’s hull cut through the ocean for some hours. At least they were moving forward.
The galley made good progress for the next two days. They pressed onwards under oar and sail making good speed. On the third day out of Tunis, the journey was interrupted by the piercing wail of the boatswain’s whistle. “Make ready!” he cried. “We’re turning north!”
Kidd pushed his way through the mob of sailors scurrying across the deck as they tended to the sails. He found Harissa at the wheel, easing the Masala through the turn. Ramiro stood at her shoulder, whispering advice in her ear. She saw him approach. “The keel is playing havoc with us. The Invincible hurt us worse than I thought. The old girl is steering like a mule. There’s no way I can get you to Beirut without proper repairs. If the keel comes apart, the only place we’re going is to the bottom of the ocean.”
Kidd saw real worry in her eyes. “Where are we headed?”
“Syracuse is close. At a guess, we’ll be out of commission for a week at least.” She looked at him kindly. “I’m sorry.”
“I’m the one who should apologise for getting you involved in all this,” he replied.
The keelson needed the care of a shipwright. The patchwork of boards had split and many had come loose. Flint seemed agitated by the news they were to set down in Syracuse. He limped up and down, his thigh wound still not fully healed.
“Something wrong?” asked Kidd.
Flint stared into the distance with glazed eyes. “My leg feels tight. Is that all right with you?” He didn’t wait for an answer and clomped away.
Next morning the Masala reached Sicilian waters. They limped around the coastline, passing many fishing villages until the salmon-hued walls of Syracuse rose up to meet them. The sails were collapsed and they rowed into the bay. Syracuse was bustling with activity. Kidd recalled that about a year before, an earthquake had toppled several buildings and left others damaged. This disaster seemed to have been a good catalyst for development and trade. Men had come to buy and sell their wares, offer services, or simply tour the ancient city. The harbour was filled with boats, big and small, travelling under oar and sail, and bearing flags from every part of the world. On the surface, the city looked vibrant and colourful, but Kidd knew they would have to be wary. People with wealth tended to attract parasites. Across the water he spied La Fortresse, anchored majestically in the centre of the bay. His heart sank altogether. After the lengths they had gone to escape the French, their paths had crossed once more.
Harissa took Kemal ashore to find friendly carpenters and boat-builders. She returned some hours later with bad news. “We’ll need a good deal of work to be seaworthy again,” she said slipping the scarf from her face. “And that means gold, but we’ve been a bit short of funds of late, so I’ll need a deposit if we’re to get you to Beirut.”
Kidd readily emptied his purse into her hands. His remaining gold was barely enough to buy supplies, let alone purchase building materials and pay skilled craftsmen to fix the Masala. “That’s all I have. I hope it’s enough.”
Kidd busied himself wherever possible for the next two days. There was plenty to do, from bracing planks to swabbing the hull with tar. He began to appreciate some of the good qualities of his metal hands when he heard sailors complaining about cuts and splinters. Flint occupied himself with the medallion. He stared at the gold disc for hours, holding it this way and that, even against the naked sun as if the blinding light could reveal its secrets.
As the third day under the ferocious Sicilian sun came to an end, Kidd ate a good meal, washed it down with a goblet of the local red wine, and turned in to his bunk. As his head hit the pillow he felt the grip of sleep take hold. He closed his eyes and allowed himself to be taken away, briefly, from the burden of The Tears.
* * *
“Wake up, William!”
Kidd’s eyes shot open. Kemal’s menacing figure leaned over his cot in the flickering candlelight. “A rowing boat is missing and your friend is nowhere to be seen. Come with me.”
Kidd shook the sleep from his head. Kemal led him through the mass of sleeping sailors to Flint’s bunk. The man in the neighbouring bunk was so drunk he was snoring on the floor where he’d collapsed.
“Your friend has a somewhat volatile nature, and he’s making some of the lads nervous. Harissa told this man to watch him in case there was any trouble.”
“Tom would have realised that. He would have been offended by a guard no matter how friendly.” Kidd felt his jaw clench. Flint had lost none of his slipperiness. A simple game of dice and few bottles of wine had disabled the watch. Flint could hold more liquor than any hardened seaman. Even drunk, he could pass without being seen or heard. If he chose to leave the ship undetected, there was little they could do to stop him. “I’ll search for him at first light. He’s my responsibility.”
“A wise decision,” said Kemal with a scowl. “Your friend’s trustworthiness has been called into question and I would regret having to take care of the matter myself.”
Kidd felt anger well in his stomach. “You’d best be careful, Kemal. Tom Flint may be a loudmouth and a drunkard, but he’s also my friend.”
Kemal wasn’t oblivious to the warning, but he wasn’t intimidated either. His dark eyes flashed in the candlelight. “There’s a reason we’ve heard your name before, Iron William Kidd. At Bastia, Flint told stories of your exploits when he was thick with drink, unconcerned who might be listening. He told some of our people grand stories while he took our gold at dice. Whatever you think, Tom Flint isn’t the man you once knew. I do not wish for us to come to blows over this matter. Simply heed what I have to say.”
Kemal’s words stung. Kidd had to prove they were baseless. If Flint had abandoned him, he would have taken the sword and the medallion. They would fetch a small fortune. He lifted Flint’s mattress. Both items were still there, safely wrapped in a sheet.
Kidd clutched them to his chest and returned to his cot. He tossed and turned for some time. Why had Flint felt the need to sneak off the ship in such a way? Was his madness becoming more severe? The questions rewarded him only with restless sleep.
The Masala’s missing rowing boat was qu
ickly recovered the following morning. Tied to a jetty, it bobbed in the waves. Flint returned not long afterwards, limping along the wharf propped on the shoulder of a burly Sicilian. He was sweaty and black under the eyes as though he’d had a hard night’s drinking. A dozen men followed with a wagon, loaded with wood, jars of pitch, and tools.
Kidd intercepted him on the pier. “Where the hell have you been? You’ve made me look like a fool.”
Flint rubbed his hands together. “Relax, Will. I just nipped away to call in a favour.”
Kidd eyed the gathered host carefully. “You could have told me about this first.”
“Eh? The captain has been treating me like a prisoner, watching my every move, but now maybe everyone will leave me alone.” He swept his arm in a majestic manner. “Allow me to introduce some of the Holy Roman Emperor’s best shipwrights. We’ll have the Masala seaworthy before you know it, with his compliments.” He bowed with a spiralling sweep of his coat-tails and waited for some acknowledgement, but none was forthcoming. “Well, no need to thank me all at once.” He took Kidd by the arm. “Guess what, there’s a ball at the Castello Maniace tonight. Your former employer, Philip of Spain, is rehearsing his regal pomp and circumstance. He’s invited everyone important to attend. I managed to acquire two invitations.” He snorted a laugh. “I don’t think Harissa likes me, so you’ll have to be my escort for the evening.”
“I believe I’ll graciously decline. And as for Harissa, try not to test her patience. We need her help.”
Iron William and the Carpenter's Tears Page 16