A Distant Magic

by Mary Jo Putney

  She jumped like a nervous hare when a key grated in the lock, but this time it was only the crewman carrying her supper, along with his usual guard. Since she'd had no luck getting information on previous days, today she asked for hot water to wash herself. She asked in French and repeated the request in English, but again, the sailors ignored her. They withdrew, locking the door firmly behind them.

  As she finished eating, the door opened again and a sailor she hadn't seen before delivered a large bucket of water. He was carefully guarded, of course.

  "Merci," she said politely as she handed over the tray with her empty bowl and spoon. She hadn't finished the wine, so she kept that. She added the smile that had been called charming in some of London's best ballrooms.

  At her thanks, the sailor dropped his eyes bashfully as he left. He was just a boy, probably under twenty. Young enough to be embarrassed by the mere presence of a woman. Possibly he might become an ally.

  Under the circumstances, she was reluctant to disrobe for a really thorough bath, but with a corner of one of the towels she'd found below the washbasin, she could clean herself well enough. Then she washed her hair, getting as much powder out as possible. If she was to face the unknown, she'd do it looking like herself.

  Like a damned redheaded Scot.

  She woke from a sound sleep when an almighty boom shuddered through the ship, knocking her from her bunk. Swearing, she scrambled to her feet. Had the ship struck a reef or rock? No, she heard shouts, then another ragged volley of explosions that rocked the vessel. They were being fired on by cannon.

  More cannon shots, this time deafeningly close as the Justice fired back. Her blood ran cold. If the ship was damaged badly enough to sink, she could die here, trapped like a rat in a cage.

  Hell, no! She slid into her lightweight shoes, then set to work on the door lock with a hairpin, creating a small mage light so she could see what she was doing. She hadn't the magical ability to move the tumblers by pure thought, but she did have a knack for puzzles and locks, and this one took only moments to pick.

  Knife in hand, she dowsed the mage light and opened the door. The narrow corridor was dark and silent, though overhead cacophony ruled. There had been no more cannon volleys. Shouts and pistol shots suggested that one ship had tried to board the other, and the crews were fighting hand to hand. In the confusion, there might be an opportunity to escape.

  Invoking a don't-look spell, she ran down the corridor and climbed the ladder, emerging onto the deck warily. Dawn was a slash of orange along the eastern horizon, and there was just enough light to outline the men fighting with swords and sometimes pistols. She took shelter in the shadow of the wheelhouse and tried to make sense of the action. To her surprise, Gregorio's ship was a European trading vessel not dissimilar to the Mercury. She'd expected a pirate ship to look different.

  But the slim, narrow vessel lying alongside was unquestionably a corsair galley. Low and sleek, it had dozens of slaves chained to oars. Sections of the oars that extended beyond the ship were broken where the hulls banged together. So which ship was the attacker and which the victim? Had one pirate accidentally attacked another?

  The battle spilled across both ships, with the corsairs wearing light-colored turbans. They outnumbered the crew of the Justice, but Gregorio's men, a very mixed lot, fought very, very well. In fact, they were gradually prevailing, killing some of the corsairs and pushing the others back onto the galley. Gregorio was right in the middle of the action, moving with lithe ruthlessness as he struck down pirate after pirate.

  She had considered crossing to the other ship until she saw that it was a corsair. Joining them was unlikely to be an improvement. Perhaps she could escape from the Justice when its crew was looking the other way.

  She slipped around the wheelhouse and studied the starboard side of the ship, opposite the fighting. The Justice carried several dinghies, with the smallest secured a little forward of her position. She moved closer. After a quick survey, she decided she could cut the vessel loose with her knife. It was small enough that she could push it over the railing into the water. The sea was fairly calm, and if the boat stayed upright she could dive in next to it, then board and row away.

  But would such an escape improve her situation? When the Justice won its current battle, she'd be missed. Once they realized she wasn't aboard the ship, it probably wouldn't take them long to spot her, and rowing wasn't a fast way to travel. Even if she managed to escape, she might well be sentencing herself to death from thirst or starvation.

  She consulted her intuition. She didn't have the sense that she was likely to die escaping on a dinghy, so it was worth the risk. Of course, intuition might just be saying that she wouldn't manage to get away, but she was willing to try.

  She was sawing on a line that secured the bow of the dinghy when she heard Gregorio bellow with a fury that curdled the air. Curious, she moved back to the wheelhouse and saw that he and his men had advanced onto the galley.

  Gregorio was engaged in a shouting match with the corsair captain in a language she didn't recognize. The sky had lightened enough to reveal Gregorio's expression, and the blood on his curved sword. Most of the corsairs were wounded or captive. Very soon the fighting would be over.

  Sneering, the corsair captain—a reis, that's what they were called—jumped to the raised aisle that ran between the seats where the rowers were chained. He raised his sword to chop at the nearest slave. The slave screamed and cowered away, desperately trying to avoid the blow.

  With a roar, Gregorio leaped after the reis and smashed the other man's blade aside with his sword. Jean stared. It looked as if he was defending the slaves! Probably because they were valuable. She was about to return to the dinghy when three of the remaining corsair fighters joined their captain, all of them hacking at Gregorio.

  Damnation, the reis was pulling a pistol out from under his flowing robe and aiming it point-blank at Gregorio! She shouldn't care, but every fiber of her being screamed that she couldn't let him die.

  She darted to the railing, knife in hand. The action of the battle seemed to slow, giving her all the time she needed to skid to a halt, take aim, and hurl her knife into the reis's throat.

  The reis crumbled, his pistol discharging harmlessly into the air. By the time his body hit the deck, three of Gregorio's sailors had reached their captain's side. Fighting in the narrow aisle between the rows of oars, they cut down the remaining corsairs.

  With his back protected, Gregorio spun around to look at the source of the knife. His gaze moved right to her, but that didn't mean he'd recognized her. She strengthened her don't-see spell and dropped to the deck of the Justice, out of the captain's sight. If she was to have any chance of escaping, she would have to move fast.

  With her knife gone, she would need some sort of a weapon. She passed a dead pirate and appropriated his sword. Slim and curving, it was light enough for her to handle. Not as good as her throwing knife, but a great deal better than nothing.

  Grimly she began hacking at the ropes that secured the dinghy.

  Chapter

  TEN

  Who the devil? Nikolai's crew contained no one like the boy who had thrown the knife. Might the child have crossed over from the corsair?

  Then the small figure turned and vanished, and Nikolai realized that was no boy. "Tano, take charge here!"

  The death of the corsair captain had ended the battle. Moulay Reis was an old enemy of Nikolai's, and he had wanted to take the man's life himself. Of course, their fight had almost gone the other way. Leave it to Moulay to cheat with a pistol.

  But why had the little witch saved him? Assuming the scruffy little urchin who had hurled that knife was her. The idea was incredible, but he'd seen her face, and the outlines of a slight but distinctly female form under her shapeless sailor's garments.

  Nikolai leaped back aboard his ship to find the Scottish witch. He found her at the dinghy, slashing at the lines that secured it to the deck. A thick red braid fel
l over her shoulder, and her small white hands wielded a corsair blade with unnerving expertise.

  "Don't waste your strength," he barked. "You're not leaving this ship."

  She pivoted, sword in hand. It was a lovely nimcha, one he wouldn't mind owning. She hissed, "Don't come near me!"

  He paused out of her reach, realizing that he was disinclined to move closer. She was using some kind of magical shield. He could overcome it, but he would have to use his own magic to do so.

  Reluctantly amused by the blazing red-haired hellion who confronted him with lethal menace, he asked, "Where is that well-bred young lady I kidnapped in Marseilles?"

  "She existed mostly in your mind." Her crisp voice was as different as her demeanor and her garb. "I'm no meek English virgin, Captain. I rode to battle against the king's army in the Rising of Forty-five. When my lover died, I led our men myself. After Culloden, I guided them home safely across country filled with pillaging English soldiers. You underestimated me, as most men do." Her eyes narrowed. "I could have killed you. Instead, I saved your life. Surely that is worth my freedom."

  "Why should I be fair when I hold all the power?" Thinking she was unlikely to attack him, he concentrated his power and reached out slowly to take the sword.

  She sliced the blade across his wrist with just enough pressure to draw blood, then danced back a step. "Not all the power. There's a good chance that I can kill you before any of your men observe this little scene." She showed her teeth. "We shall learn if your power of attack is greater than my ability to shield."

  "I doubt you have enough power to fight off me and my whole crew!"

  "It would be interesting to find out." She lowered the point of her sword. "Promise me my life and freedom, and in return I shall spare your life and not send any Guardian enforcers after you."

  "I have no intention of killing you, but your freedom is another matter." He muttered an oath as he wiped blood from his wrist. The wound wasn't dangerous, but it stung like Hades. "What makes you think I would keep a promise made under duress?"

  She laughed wickedly. "Because you are a man of principles, even though you are a kidnapping, bloodthirsty pirate."

  He swore again. This woman could read him like no one he'd ever known. Except, perhaps, his grandmother. "You have little bargaining power. Kill me and my men will kill you."

  "A man who seeks vengeance with such passion surely has a sense of justice," she said flatly. "Do you owe me nothing for saving your life?"

  He frowned, hating the fact that she was right. Moulay Reis had guessed that threatening a helpless slave would enrage Nikolai to the point where he would cast caution to the winds. "I might have avoided Moulay Reis's musket ball, for I have survived many battles such as this. But it's possible that he would have killed me, so I do owe you something. Not your freedom, though. My life is too paltry a price for that."

  Her mouth tightened. "At the least, you should release me from that cabin before I go mad with boredom."

  So the Scottish witch was impatient. With that red hair, he wasn't surprised. "If you give me your word that you will not injure anyone, you may have the key to your cabin and the freedom of the ship."

  "You aren't asking me to promise not to escape?"

  "The ship will not call anywhere that will offer you freedom," he said bluntly.

  "Very well," she said, after considering. "But if saving your life is worth so little, what would it take to win my freedom?"

  He guessed that the question was rhetorical, but he chose to answer it. "Saving the entire ship and crew would do, I believe. Now give me that sword."

  She refused to hand it over, though he felt her relax her protective shield. "Only if I get my own knife back. It was made for my hand."

  "Very well. Come and take it from Moulay Reis's throat."

  He was deliberately harsh in his words, but she didn't blink. As she started across the deck, she said, "You knew the captain of the other ship?"

  "Oh, yes," he said softly. "I knew him well."

  She slanted a glance upward. "Sorry to have denied you the pleasure of killing him," she said with uncomfortable perception. "Who was the attacker in this battle?"

  "He was. Exactly what I had wished for." They reached the railing. Though the two ships lay side by side, hulls grinding, it still took great care to jump to the deck of the galley. He timed the rise and fall of the ships before leaping down.

  He turned and saw Jean hesitating as she studied the shifting gap between the ships. For a petite woman, the risk was greater. He extended his hand to her. "Come."

  "No need." Her muscles tensed as she prepared to jump.

  He said impatiently, "If you slip and fall, you'll be ground to pieces between the hulls. Take my hand."

  Reluctantly she obeyed. When their hands clasped, there was a snap of energy, and he realized that the current between them ran both ways. She was much less cool than she appeared. Though she had experienced battle, she was no hardened warrior. Her determination to look fierce was curiously endearing.

  She leaped down to the deck of the galley and almost fell when the ship pitched. His grip held her steady until she regained her balance.

  "Thank you." She yanked her hand away. He stepped back, unnerved by their interaction. Maybe he should free her for his own peace of mind. Either that or feed her to the sharks. Though the sharks might not thank him for such a sharp-edged morsel.

  Nikolai's experienced crew was already cleaning up the debris of battle. The dead were stacked to one side. Most were Muslim, and they would have the rites of their religion said before being consigned to the sea. The captives were huddled under guard in the stern of the ship. Their unhappy expressions suggested that they had heard of Nikolai and the Justice.

  The banging of hammer and chisel on iron marked the blows of the ship's blacksmith as he struck the irons from the galley slaves. Other crewmen distributed modest portions of bread, cheese, and ale. The freed slaves fell on the food ravenously. Rowers were seldom fed more than the bare essentials necessary to keep them working. Later they would be given better food, but Nikolai knew from experience that feeding them too much now would make them ill.

  Most of the rowers were European, though a few Africans were scattered in. One of the first freed rose shakily from his bench and stretched to his full height, extending his arms as he embraced the ability to move freely. He wore only a loincloth and his sunburned skin covered hard, ropy muscles. His face was luminescent with joy. "God bless you, Captain," he said in French. "What will you do with us?"

  "Sell them for a good profit," Jean muttered under her breath. "The poor devils."

  Nikolai's eyes narrowed. "Watch and learn." He took the sword from her. "But first, retrieve your knife."

  Feeling that she had fallen into another world, Jean picked her way between the rowers to the crumpled body of Moulay Reis. Some of the freed slaves openly gaped when they realized she was a woman, but they said nothing. Food and freedom were more important now.

  The splendid red-and-gold brocade robe the reis wore was saturated with blood, and Jean's knife still rested in his slashed throat. His dark eyes stared sightlessly at his killer when Jean bent over to retrieve the weapon. Forcing herself to be impassive, she pulled out the dagger and wiped the blood off on the robe's ermine trim.

  She stood and turned back, wanting to escape this charnel house. The small, quiet cabin that had been her prison was appealing now that she wouldn't be locked in.

  As she made her way along the aisle between the rowing stations, another freed slave called to Gregorio, his face desperate with hope, "Will you take us home?" He spoke French, but his accent was Italian, Jean thought.

  Though she had been ready to retreat to her cabin, now curiosity held her. She took a spot on the railing below the Justice so she could retreat quickly if necessary, then turned to watch how the captain would handle the situation.

  Gregorio moved to the end of the rowing area and raised his arms commandingl
y, Jean's sword in his hand. Using French, the most widely spoken language in Europe, he said, "We will deliver you to the Mediterranean port that is convenient for the greatest number of you. Those still far from home will receive funds to travel the rest of the way." His gaze swept the bony, wild-eyed men before him. A few were translating quietly to comrades who didn't understand French.

  It was shocking to look at Gregorio and realize that he had been a galley slave just like these men. Shocking, and disturbing to think of him chained and naked, only a loincloth on his gaunt, sunburned body.

  A grizzled man stared at his scarred wrists, deeply grooved by years of manacles. "What about those of us who have no home?" he said in a hoarse voice.

  He might not have expected an answer, but Gregorio said, "There is an alternative. I can take you to the island of Santola. It is inhabited almost entirely by freed slaves, both men and women. All are welcome on Santola no matter what your past. In return for a home, you must accept others as they accept you. You must also work, but as free men, not slaves. You may stay as long as you wish. If you ever decide to leave, you will have passage to the mainland on the next available ship."

  His words produced a rustle of interest among the galley slaves, with the word Santola being repeated in hushed voices. Jean studied the men's faces and auras and had the sense that a fair number of them, perhaps a third, were excited by the idea of a new home where the shame of slavery wouldn't matter. But where was Santola? She had never heard of it.

  One of the slaves rose and stalked toward the sullen group of prisoners. His back was a hideous snarl of scars. "You speak of life. Now that I am free, I am interested only in death. His death!"

  Eyes wild, he lunged at the most richly dressed of the captives, locking his hands around the man's throat and wrestling him to the deck. The guards pried the galley slave off the struggling corsair.