Blood and Oak- Wolves Will Eat

by Garrett Bettencourt

“Yes, Chronicler.”

  “Then we will launch at once.” Naim faced his late-twenties apprentice. “I will join you aboard the flagship and direct the attack.”

  Isitan didn’t move. “No, you misunderstand, my teacher. Our ships sail for Istanbul.”

  Naim took in a sharp breath. “Our mission is not over.”

  “I regretfully disagree.”

  “You would betray your Chronicler?”

  Isitan sighed. “No, my mentor. I act out of my undying loyalty to you. That is why I have struck a deal with the Janissaries. The Nizam-I Djedid have agreed to leave immediately with you in our custody, and we will be allowed safe passage out of the city.”

  Naim’s hands trembled. At that moment, he could have strangled anything alive for the satisfaction of watching it die. But he loved Isitan like a son, and so he turned back toward the sunrise.

  “Corbaci Ildemir wanted you arrested on charges of treason,” Isitan went on. “Given our position of strength in the city, I was able to persuade him to let us return you to Istanbul in peace. We will face the consequences of our actions before Sultan Selim, side-by-side, as we have always done. As you have always taught.”

  The rays of light were blooming on the horizon like a rose. Naim watched the birth of the new day in silence.

  “Others may not see the toll your work has taken on you, Sidi Naim, but I do. Our empire was dying—Russian invasions from the north. Napoleon rising in the west. Barbary provinces emboldened in the south. But Sultan Selim founded the Nizam-I Djedid to save the Ottoman people. And how do his subjects repay him? By plotting his murder. But for you, Varlick Naim, they would have succeeded long ago. Because of you, we have before us a bright new future.”

  The clouds lit up like a fire. For the first time in years, Naim felt awe at the sight. The words of his pupil held the weight of truth. He felt them deep in his heart, pulling at the tattered threads of his soul.

  Isitan stepped closer. “It is out of love that I beg you to abandon this doomed quest. You asked the sultan’s aide, and mine, to avenge your son’s death. And in that honorable pursuit, you have expended every possible effort. Nothing more need be done for Ilyas to rest. Let yourself grieve, Varlick. Let me grieve by your side.”

  Naim squeezed the railing until his knuckles hurt. To succumb to Isitan’s plea—to the temptation to lay down his burden—would be to abandon the work. All those years building a new future for an empire, and Naim had been ignoring the most important work of all—raising a son. And what had the Chronicler’s work built? A future where Sullivan would live and Ilyas would rot in a grave, never having known his father’s unequivocal love.

  Isitan spoke softly, more like a friend than a comrade. “Your accomplishments are unmatched, yet I see the terrible toll they have taken. And so, during this last year, I sought out your wife and daughter. I sent letters to Rahele and Touran.”

  “You what?” hissed Naim.

  “They wrote back. They wish to welcome you home. To forgive you. They ask you to let go of vengeance. It isn’t too late to answer their call. To go home, and to the rest you so richly deserve.” Isitan touched Naim’s shoulder. “Let me carry this burden for you.”

  Emotion raged behind Naim’s eyes. He could feel Isitan reaching a part of him long lost. He wanted with all his heart to agree. “No! I cannot pass this work to another. My work is not yet finished.”

  “If you will not hear my plea, then hear that of your wife.” Isitan dug through his bandolier bag. “Rahele sent a gift with her message.”

  Naim’s eyes landed on a single black shape in the center of the lake. A powerful foreign warship given to an undeserving bey. The Wolf of Tunis. It had been many hours since he left his message for the Red Hart. Did she have it, he wondered? And yet, for but a moment, Naim didn’t care. Because Isitan was about to hand him a chronicle from home. His heart leaped at the thought of his olive trees. His library. His daughter. His wife.

  “There is no need,” said Naim, touching Isitan’s shoulder.

  The younger man let the satchel slip from his fingers.

  ###

  Midnight, Earlier

  Kaitlin had always loved secrets. She turned the tiny scroll over in her pocket, a missive written on a finger-length scrap of paper. Moments after her father sacrificed his life for their escape, there had been a soft thud several yards away from her. A bolt had landed in the rail of the ship, and only she had noticed. Naim was too far away to hit her with any accuracy, standing as he had been on the tower, but he managed to hit the ship. Kaitlin found the message wrapped around the bolt. In the chaos of the last few hours, she hadn’t had a chance to read it, but now it called to her.

  “Kaitlin, did you hear what I said?” Ethan asked.

  “Yes, I heard you.” Kaitlin’s eyes were on the water, stars wavering in the ripples. “You’ve put up a hammock for me in one of the officers’ berths—on the crew deck.”

  Kaitlin kept her distance from the other sailors, but she liked Ethan. There was a warmth and kindness about her brother’s friend, and he was easy to talk to. But at some point in his questions about whether she was hurt, hungry, or seasick, she stopped listening. She needed to read the message.

  “And, if there’s anything you need, you’ll let me know, right?”

  Eager to have privacy, Kaitlin nodded. “Right. Really, Ethan I’m fine. I just—need a little air. I’ll come down soon.”

  “Okay.” Ethan smiled and then went down the forward hatch.

  Kaitlin wasted no time finding a spot between two of the guns at the bow. Bodies moved all around her—sailors carrying supplies, climbing the rigging, hauling on ropes. They sent many curious glances her way but otherwise left her be. The deck was small, and there were plenty of crew working near, but Kaitlin doubted they would take an interest in a girl reading a scroll. As long as John didn’t see her, all would be well. She held the missive close to her eyes, straining to read by starlight.

  To the thief calling herself the Red Hart,

  There was a place in Carthage where, as your mother’s favorite storyteller has it, ‘A poor player struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more.’

  In this place, you will find your mother’s last possession: A journal bound in green vellum. Come reclaim Nora’s chronicle. Then we shall conclude our own.

  Your humble servant,

  V. Naim, Chronicler of Constantinople.

  The blood in Kaitlin’s veins went cold. Naim didn’t fire that bolt at random. He meant it for her. Why? Why not write it to John?

  “You’re Kaitlin, right?” said a woman’s voice.

  Kaitlin crumpled the note and stuffed it under her kaftan. A woman appeared above her, with a burgundy ballroom dress, covered in dust and smoke. Judging by her blonde hair and petite face, this was the girl her brother liked. “Yes. And you must be Johnny’s sweetheart—I mean, you’re Dominique.”

  An embarrassed smile came over Dominique’s face. She looked at her bare feet for a moment. “Yes, I’m Dominique. Are you all right down there?”

  “Yes.” Given the older woman’s concern, Kaitlin looked at the cannon barrels to her right and left, wondering if they were smoking or something.

  “Ah, well…” Dominique smoothed a lock of hair behind her ear, then crouched to Kaitlin’s level. “With the men so busy up here, I wondered if you might like to come below with me. To find something to eat.”

  “Ethan already asked me that. I like it up here.”

  “Right.” Dominique blinked. “You really don’t want a little company?”

  “Not really.” This was the girl John was all smitten over? A bit of a mother hen, Kaitlin thought.

  “Well, I just wanted to say thank you—for all you did to help us,” Dominique said.

  “Aye, then.”

  Dominique looked nervously at the men working on deck. “You know, Jean-Christophe really is a wonderful cook. He’s lighting the galley stove, and I could ask him to
—”

  “Lil Red!” The face of a woman dressed as a Navy sailor appeared over the cannon barrel.

  Kaitlin gave an elated grin. “Melly!”

  “Shh!” Melisande put a finger to her lips. “It’s ‘Michael’ for now.”

  Dominique sighed. “I see you two have met.”

  “Er—Michael,” whispered Kaitlin. “Why are you dressed like a boy?”

  Melisande snorted, her voice suddenly deepening. “Uh, because I am. A boy. In the Navy—again…It’s complicated.”

  “Did my sanguine chalk work?”

  “Like a charm!”

  “Did you have to hurt any soldiers?”

  Melisande cleared her throat. “One or two—only the mean ones. Say, want to climb the mainmast?”

  Dominique said, “I don’t think that’s such a good—”

  “Care to make it a race?” Kaitlin rubbed her hands together.

  “Only if there’s a wager,” Melisande said.

  “What can I bet? I spent everything I ever stole.”

  Dominique sighed heavily.

  “I’ll accept an honor bet,” Melisande replied. “Any sister of Sully’s is good for it. Come on.”

  Kaitlin and Melisande raced for the mainmast.

  ###

  Dawn, Later

  “You are right, old friend,” said Naim, his hand still on Isitan’s shoulder. “Our mission here is done. I should return home.”

  Isitan gave a relieved smile. “I promise, once we are home, things will get better. You will see.”

  The two men left the balcony, their footsteps echoing in the empty banquet all. Dawn light streamed through the windows, the long table glittering with crystal stemware.

  “Very good,” said Naim. “Ready the ship for departure.”

  “At once, Chronicler.” Isitan bowed and turned to leave.

  Naim followed close behind. “And Commander, before we depart, will you carry one last chronicle on my behalf?”

  “Of course, anything.” Isitan turned to face Naim. “What would you have me—”

  The commander’s words vanished in a gasp. Isitan’s eyes traced down. A seven-inch curved dagger was buried in his gut. He looked at Naim in bewilderment. Naim drove the blade all the way to the hilt, and a cough burst out of his pupil’s mouth. A spray of blood landed on Naim’s beard. As the knife twisted in Isitan’s insides, he grasped at Naim’s shoulder—not to fight, Naim sensed, but out of an instinct to stay on his feet.

  Naim brought his lips close to the ear of his dying protégé. “When you arrive at the gates of heaven, and Allah asks you why I have murdered one of His most loyal and beautiful servants, tell Him you are but the first of many. Tell Him that a great many of His precious works shall follow, until His tears fall from heaven in a bitter rain.”

  Isitan made a gurgling sound as he fought to breathe. Naim looked into the commander’s eyes, watching them fill with tears. Isitan’s fingers grasped weakly at Naim’s sleeve. His legs began to sink. There were so many questions in his eyes. Questions he would never get to ask. The answers, Naim imagined, never really mattered anyway.

  “Do this, for me? Old friend?” Naim planted a kiss on the younger man’s cheek, gave the dagger a quarter turn, and pulled it free with one strong jerk. The hooked backside of the blade carried Isitan’s innards out of him like stuffing from a pillow. Purple ropes splattered on marble tile.

  A heavy set of feet slowly approached behind Naim. He knew it was the Janissary Re’is Hamit, former captain of the Wolf of Tunis, emerging from the door to the adjoining parlor. Hamit stepped alongside the Chronicler, watching Isitan die with mild interest.

  The commander of the Nizam-I Djedid sank to his knees. He stared at his own intestines, bloody coils hanging from his belly. Then his eyes drifted into space, and he tipped forward. The commander’s satchel fell open, and a wooden horse slid out. It was a beautifully carved Arabian with a prancing step.

  The dagger clattered on the floor. Naim stared at the toy horse he had carved for his son, still charred from the bonfire in which it almost burned. Rahele had sent it with her chronicle. A beautiful symbol of her wish for peace. Naim could bear to look at it no longer. He walked onto the balcony, his hands coated with the blood of a surrogate son.

  Hamit stood quietly.

  “Are your ships ready?”

  “Yes, Chronicler,” said Hamit, unfazed by the corpse lying near his feet. To men like him, a murdered man was just more meat for the butcher. “The city’s people are furious with the burning of their harvest. They want revenge on the Americans for the Day of Blood. Every pirate and Janissary yearns to take slaves and reclaim the bey’s flagship.”

  “Very well.” Naim came to the balcony edge. The sky was a mural of Heaven. “Tell your men they shall have a feast.”

  Without another word, Hamit marched out of the banquet hall and left the Chronicler to his thoughts.

  ###

  Midnight, Earlier

  Boots clunked up and down the deck above. Calls and shouts echoed around the ship. Gun carriages and tackles scraped and creaked. The commotion was music to John’s ears. Ninety-one men readying the frigate for war. John walked through the gun deck toward the cabin. He opened the door and found Dominique digging through a trunk near the stern windows, her back to him.

  The place was a mess, much like the rest of the ship. The captain’s desk was covered in scrolls, rotting lamb bones, empty wine goblets. The floor was piled with unlaundered clothes, parts of weapons, barrels of junk. A large Persian rug was a mosaic of stains.

  Dominique tossed several bits of refuse from the chest, and now appeared satisfied with her find. She flipped the lid closed and held up a long Turkish pipe. It was carved of ochre-colored wood and had a sharply upright stem. She examined it under the rusty light of the only burning lantern, her back still to John.

  “You must be desperate,” he said.

  Dominique spun around. “Sully! You startled me.”

  “Lucky for you, Re’is Hamit is a smoker.” John stooped under the low ceiling. He held up a pouch of dry tobacco leaves. “Luckier still, I’m a chewer.”

  “The second time you’ve saved me today.” Dominique picked her way through the mess and held out the pipe.

  They shared a smile as John packed the bowl. He unhooked the lantern, opened the glass, and held it up for a light. He loved watching her puff with those pouting lips, loved the concentration in her blue eyes. Even disheveled, tired, and filthy, she was as beautiful as ever. She noticed him watching, and she grinned.

  When the pipe was lit, Dominique breathed out a cloud of smoke. Her eyes slipped closed. “Oh, thank God.”

  “Can I have some?”

  “What? Oh!” Dominique handed him the pipe as if she’d forgotten he was there.

  It was Dominique’s turn to watch John puff, and he felt a little embarrassed. He was still wearing the grime, sweat, and smoke of four days. He couldn’t have been a handsome sight. But the earthy smoke warmed his lungs, and he soon closed his eyes and forgot his troubles. “Oh, thank God.”

  They smoked quietly for a moment, listening to the calls of sailors on the spar deck above their heads.

  “Sully…I heard about your papa. I’m sorry.”

  John stared at the filthy Ottoman rug. He nodded. “He was…” John’s voice broke, and he fought back tears. “He was a hero. He died a captain.”

  “I know.” Dominique reached a hand to his shoulder. Her soft touch was a far better comfort than the pipe. “He won’t be forgotten.”

  John nodded again. Another word on the subject and he knew he would break down. “Melly told me about Aubert. Did he hurt you?”

  Dominique’s hand slipped away. She folded her arms and turned toward the stern windows. The dark glass reflected her face, and John could see she was holding back tears of her own.

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t there, Dom. I should have—”

  “No,” said Dominique, turning to face him. Sh
e took in a breath, steeling her composure. “You were where you needed to be, Sully. And so was Melisande. I’m all right. Really, I am.”

  John let go a deep sigh. “Things will be better soon, I promise. Once we make it to open sea.”

  Dominique handed the pipe back to John. “Sully… We can win, can’t we?”

  He tried to puff, but the pipe had gone out. “I haven’t fought all these years to lose now. We’re going home, Dom. Trust me.”

  Dominique stepped closer, and their bodies were touching. He could see the lust in her eyes. “I trust you, Sully. I always have.”

  To be so close to her, John ached with desire. He slipped a hand around her waist. Her breath turned heavy.

  “Sully…” She brought her cheek close to his. “I missed you.”

  “I missed you too.” John leaned in for the kiss. She closed her eyes.

  The cabin door flung open. “Midshipman Sullivan!” cried Gabriel Sawyer.

  They both started and stepped away from each other.

  “Erm, sorry sir,” said the red-headed sailor. He looked away bashfully.

  “What is it, Mr. Sawyer?” asked John.

  “Mr. Ryland’s compliments, and you’re needed on the quarterdeck.”

  “Of course. I’ll be right there.”

  Sawyer dashed off. John shrugged at Dominique, wanting anything in the world but to leave her. “Duty calls.”

  “Get going, Sully.” Dominique’s eyes turned fierce. “Do what you do. So we can leave this city and go home.”

  Her words lit a fire in his heart. Roused by such a call to arms, he knew he could face any battle, no matter how dire. He gave her a single nod.

  Acting Lieutenant John Sullivan set off for the quarter deck.

  ###

  Dawn, Later

  Blood ran down the stone spokes of the balcony rail. Rivulets found the grooves in the limestone, like little streams searching for a riverbed. As the rim of the sun rose, light crawled up the balcony of the banquet hall. The light crept up to Naim’s hands and turned them iridescent. He stared in wonder at the perfect patina of crimson coating him to the forearms. There was something so beautiful in the glossy bright liquid. Naim felt as if it couldn’t possibly be the result of murder.