by Anne Lyle
One of the skraylings pointed through the gunport. “Look.”
She followed his gaze, and blinked. The glass cannonballs had smashed on the galleass’s sides, and yellowish smoke drifted down onto the surrounding boats. Sounds of coughing followed, and the pirates swarming up ropes dropped into the sea.
“There are other weapons than brute force,” Sandy said, emerging from the hold.
They left the gunners to their work and went up on deck. The skrayling ship had now passed the Hayreddin and was unable to fire another broadside effectively, but the unexpected rescue appeared to have broken the pirates’ resolve. The remaining craft were heading back towards the Dalmatian coast, abandoning the men who had fallen from the ship.
Hennaq came down from the upper deck.
“Forgive me,” he said, “but I cannot let you escape.”
He said something in Vinlandic to his men, who marched the captives back down to the hold, bound them hand and foot and gagged them. They lashed Sandy to the main mast, but before they could do the same to Coby and Gabriel, they were called back up on deck. The ship’s timbers creaked in protest as it turned and began to tack in a wide arc back to the Hayreddin. Coby smiled behind her gag. The skraylings had not noticed the hidden pistols, and now all their attention would be focused on trying to capture Mal instead of guarding their prisoners.
She could just about make out her companions’ features in the moonlight filtering down through the hatch. She shuffled over to Gabriel, working at the gag with her teeth until she could speak around it, albeit with difficulty.
“Ma’er Harrish? I meed you to goo somefing.” She moved around behind him, to where his hands were tied. “Unghasten my hose an’ reash infide.”
“What?”
“Hlease, yust goo as I fay.”
Gabriel crouched awkwardly to bring his hands down to the height of her groin, and clumsily undid her clothing. She forced herself to breathe slowly. It wasn’t as though he was interested in her in that way, she told herself. There. She heard him gasp in surprise, then he pulled out the roll of canvas. She turned around so they were back to back.
“‘ight, gig it to me.”
She fumbled with the ties and carefully unrolled the miniature tool kit. She’d practised working with it by touch, in case she ever had to use it in the dark, but never in so awkward a way. Ah, there you are! She slid the narrow-bladed pen knife out of its pocket. Carefully, carefully. Don’t want to drop it. “Ngow, kurn aroung again.”
Gabriel obeyed, and she began to saw at the rope binding his wrist, taking care not to cut him at the same time. Within a few minutes he was free and able to take the knife and return the favour, then remove both their gags. Coby stifled a cough and swallowed several times to try and moisten her parched throat.
“I’ll keep watch,” she whispered to Gabriel, retrieving her pistols. “You free Sandy.”
From the sounds of it they had circled back round and were drawing alongside the Hayreddin.
“Catlyn is there?” Hennaq’s voice was just audible over the creak and groan of the ship.
There was a pause, then someone hollered back in English, “No, Catlyn stayed in the city. Who are you?”
Coby swore under her breath. If Mal wasn’t on the Hayreddin, Hennaq would sail straight on and all would be lost. She turned and signalled to her two companions, then ran up the ladder, past the startled gunners, and pushed the main hatch open.
“Help!” she shouted in French as she emerged from below. “Captain Youssef! We have been taken prisoner!”
The crew of the Hayreddin erupted into curses, whilst the skraylings looked to their captain for further orders. A rumble below her feet told her the poison-smoke cannons were being wheeled back into position. Too late. The Hayreddin’s cannon spoke, and the side of the skrayling ship erupted in splinters.
As Erishen stumbled up the stairs from the gun-deck they exploded beneath his feet and he went sprawling. Something grabbed his calves, and he turned. Gabriel. Erishen crawled away across the rough planks of the weather deck, pulling the actor with him. Gabriel screamed, but his cries were drowned out by a second round of cannon fire.
Erishen looked around for help, but the girl was nowhere to be seen and the skraylings did not heed his cries. He rolled over and pulled himself upright. Gabriel lay on the deck, face deathly pale and a dark stain spreading across one stocking. Erishen crawled back towards the hatch and helped Gabriel up into a sitting position. Blood soaked the actor’s stocking, but his leg did not look to be shattered.
“Do not be afraid,” Erishen murmured in his ear. “The wound is not so bad.”
He dragged Gabriel into the shelter of the awning and ran back out onto deck. The cannon fire had ceased, and both sides were watching one another warily. Edging around the mast, Erishen caught sight of the girl, Hendricks, on the fo’c’s’le. She had both pistols drawn and pointed at Captain Hennaq, and was shouting to the captain of the other ship in a strange tongue. As he watched, the other ship lowered its boat and the girl began to back away, never taking her eyes – or weapons – off Hennaq.
Erishen took a lantern from the mast and ducked back under the awning. Gabriel lay on the matting, pale and unmoving. Erishen took a closer look at his leg wound. Lamplight glinted on slivers of curved glass protruding from his flesh. Ulhantjaarr. Unless Gabriel was treated quickly, he would die.
Coby edged down the stairs to the weather deck, one pistol still aimed behind her in the captain’s general direction, one sweeping back and forth across the crew. Her arms were starting to tremble from the unaccustomed weight; if she didn’t finish this soon, her plan – such as it was – would fall apart.
As she reached the bottom step, Sandy emerged from the awning carrying an unconscious Gabriel. He shouted something to the skraylings, and she thought she heard the name “Gaoh” amongst his words.
“What happened?” she said over her shoulder as she backed towards them.
“An exploding shell. He is poisoned.”
Coby waved a pistol at the nearest skrayling.
“You! Get here Elder Gaoh, now!”
The sailor bowed and scurried off. Out of the corner of her eye she could see the Hayreddin’s jolly boat setting out across the gap between the two vessels. A few moments later the old physician appeared, clutching his medicine bag to his chest like a frightened girl-child with a doll. She jerked her head towards Gabriel.
“He die, you die,” she told him. Tradetalk could be gratifyingly unsubtle at times.
Sandy lowered the unconscious actor to the deck, and Gaoh began fussing over him. After peeling back his patient’s eyelids and feeling his pulse, Gaoh put his mouth over the young actor’s and breathed into his lungs. He did this several times, then turned his attention to the wound, calling for a lantern.
Coby stood guard, arms crossed tight against her chest to stop them from shaking and pistols pointing in opposite directions. Out of the corner of her eye she could see the old skrayling pulling pieces of glass out of the wound. Gabriel never even flinched or cried out, which was worrying in itself. She turned back to the skrayling crew, scanning their features for any sign that they were about to attack. Her sudden appearance on deck had placed them at an impasse. If they tried to stop her, it would only confirm her story and spur on her rescuers, and if they did not, she would get away for certain. Captain Hennaq appeared to have opted for self-preservation over revenge. Very wise.
The splash of oars grew louder, and she heard someone shouting out to let down the rope ladder. After a moment’s hesitation the skrayling sailors complied.
“Hurry,” she told Gaoh. “We go. Now.”
Gaoh chittered to himself and finished fastening a bandage around Gabriel’s calf, then returned to his strange ritual of breathing into Gabriel’s mouth. He paused and looked up at Coby.
“You do,” the skrayling said. “I show.”
“Very well, if you think it will help.” She handed Sandy one of he
r pistols. “Try to look as though you know how to use this.”
Gaoh showed her how to pinch Gabriel’s nose and breathe into his mouth so that his lungs inflated like a bellows.
“Five times and then wait, then repeat,” she said, as he explained as best he could in a mixture of Tradetalk and gestures.
The old skrayling rose and bowed. Coby got to her feet and took the pistol back off Sandy.
“Come on, time to go.”
Sandy bent and lifted Gabriel’s inert form once more. They backed towards the rail, just as a dark-skinned sailor’s head popped up. He helped to manhandle Gabriel over the side, then Sandy followed with their baggage, leaving Coby alone on the deck. She waited for the skraylings to rush her, but they remained motionless and silent. With a prayer that the pistols would not go off, she thrust them through her belt and scrambled over the side of the ship and down to the waiting boat.
Coby sat on a stool next to the captain’s bunk, watching Gabriel for any sign of improvement. She had blown into his mouth again and again until she was dizzy, and to her relief he appeared to be breathing on his own once more, but he was still as pale as a marble statue and almost as cold. She tucked the blanket in around him and brushed back the hair from his clammy brow, swallowing against the lump in her throat. If only she had waited until they were all safely above decks before alerting Youssef to their plight, this wouldn’t have happened. The irony of losing one of the last surviving members of Suffolk’s Men to another cannon, and through her own carelessness at that, was not lost on her. She wrapped her arms around her knees and blinked back tears.
She was roused from her misery a few minutes later by the cabin door opening. After wiping her eyes on her cuff, she looked up to see Sandy ducking through the doorway, carrying a wide-bottomed jug and a wad of damp linen. His face was flushed and his dark hair was damp and curling around his temples, like Mal’s after a sparring match. He set the jug down on the floor next to the bunk, shook out the cloth and folded it neatly, then draped it over the top of the jug.
“What’s that?” she asked.
“Boiled water. We have to let it cool before we wash his wounds, though.”
“So why boil it in the first place?”
He gave her the kind of look one would bestow upon an ignorant child. “Because boiling drives off what you would call ‘evil humours’. Using unboiled water would only make matters worse.”
“Oh.” She looked out through the open door. “Are the skraylings still following us?”
“Their ship is heading south, as we are, if that’s what you mean.” Sandy went and closed the door and then leant on it with his arms folded, a pose that reminded her even more of Mal. “They’re keeping their distance, though.”
“You don’t think they’ll attack again?”
“My people are not warlike,” he said. “There are quarrels, of course, one man against another, but we do not take sides, nor fight in groups.”
“But the skrayling ships have cannons, and Hennaq fired on the pirates.”
“The cannons are for defence, not offence. It is one thing for Hennaq to frighten away pirates with a show of force, and quite another to attack a peaceful vessel.”
“Good.” She wrapped her arms about her knees again. “I was never afraid of the skraylings until now, no matter what people said about them.”
“Never?” Sandy looked sceptical.
“No more than any other strangers,” she said truthfully.
“So you’re not afraid of me?” When she didn’t answer, he nodded thoughtfully. “Hennaq was right. I am not like them, not any more.”
Coby’s hand strayed to the cross about her neck. Sandy smiled.
“Your God cannot protect you from things beyond His knowledge.”
“Blasphemy,” she whispered. “God knows all. He created everything.”
“Did he create this ship? That jug? Men create also, and God has no hand in it.”
“No, I cannot believe that.”
“As you wish. I merely state the truth.”
She got to her feet. “Will you sit with Gabriel for a while? I want to talk to Captain Youssef.”
Without waiting for an answer she pushed past him and went out onto the deck. Mal needed her to be strong, now more than ever. If they could not rely on Sandy’s sanity, she would have to lead them, and make better decisions than she had so far.
The sun was rising, gilding the hilltops of the Dalmatian coast and catching the red-and-white pennants on the mastheads of the Hayreddin. She drew a deep breath that turned into a yawn. Later. There would be time for sleep when she knew what prospects the day held.
The ship’s bell clanged, and the sailors began to change watch, climbing down from the rigging as their fellows emerged from the hold to take their places. After a few minutes the captain climbed out of the hatch, looking as weary as Coby felt.
“How is our patient, my young friend?” he said, yawning and stretching in the sunlight.
“Much the same, sir. And your men?”
“We lost Fournier to one of their grenades and a few of the men are still weak from the smoke. Allah be praised, the gunners closed the ports before any more got inside.”
“I’m sorry, sir.”
“No matter.” He patted her on the shoulder. “I could not let a friend remain a captive of those creatures. How did it come to pass that you were aboard their ship, anyway?”
She gave him a simplified account of their adventures, leaving out the details of the twins’ true connection to the skraylings. A godly man like Youssef would not understand.
“But with Alexander safe in my hands,” he said, “you think he dare not go through with the scheme, is that it?”
“Yes, but I dare not risk it. We have to get to Venice as soon as possible, to warn Master Catlyn.” She stared at the shore. Colour was flowing down the hills, revealing a harsh, sun-baked land of scrubby forest and rocky outcrops. “Surely we should be sailing north, sir, not south?”
“Your friend Gabriel needs rest and care. A ship is no place for a sick man.”
“You have somewhere in mind?”
“Spalato,” he said. “It is ruled by Venice. If you want safe passage to the republic, I can think of no better place to start.”
CHAPTER XVIII
Ned woke late and muzzy-headed the next morning, having had nothing better to do the night before but play cards with Berowne and drink strong Italian wine until he could barely see to make his way up to his attic bedchamber. He lay for a moment, probing the sticky recesses of his mouth with a furred tongue and listening to the sounds of the city stirring beyond the shuttered window, then rose and stretched.
Mal lay sprawled in the other bed, one black curl plastered to his cheek and smiling to himself in his sleep. Ned was sorely tempted to slip in beside him, but his stomach was demanding breakfast and his head was clanging like the bells of St Paul’s. So he dressed as silently as he could and tiptoed out of the room in his stockinged feet, closing the door carefully behind him. He sat down on the bollock-shrivellingly cold top step and pulled on his shoes, then padded down to the ambassador’s apartments.
The antechamber and parlour were both empty, but the great table was laid as if for dinner, with painted plates, napkins, and glasses with gilded rims. Two silver jugs stood near the head of the table, one of white wine, the other of water. Ned grimaced, wishing Berowne would serve ale like a good Englishman.
Shuffling footsteps sounded in the antechamber, and the door creaked open. Berowne’s ancient manservant entered, preceded by a mouthwatering aroma of baking. Ned took the tray of hot pastries from the man’s trembling hands and set it down on the table.
“Thank you, Master Faulkner,” the old man wheezed. “Will your master be rising soon? I’ll need to warm some more water for his shave.”
“I hope so,” Ned replied, trying to ignore the ache of hunger in his stomach. He went over to the window, to try and take his mind off the food.
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The parlour offered a fine view across a little bridge and down the canal. To the left, brick walls enclosed gardens, dark foliage spilling over into the street and softening the hard edges of this most artificial of cities. To the right, tall houses ran along the fondamenta, some with shops or workshops at street level. Bathed in the thick honeyed light of early morning, the city glowed like a sated lover. Ned sighed, wishing Gabriel could be there to share the moment with him.
“Is there anywhere more beautiful?” Mal said, joining him at the window. “I think I would never tire of the view.”
“Did I wake you?” Ned went back to the table, and as he hoped, Mal followed. “I thought you would sleep until noon. When did you get back? Before dawn, I hope.”
“Long before,” Mal said, picking up a pastry and tearing it in two.
Ned did likewise, resisting the urge to stuff the entire thing into his mouth. Instead he took a large bite, savouring the rich buttery sweetness. Say one thing about the Venetians, they knew how to cook. He finished it whilst Mal told him about the evening’s entertainments, and helped himself to another.
“It was all very pleasant and courteous, but there’s something going on in this city, something… unnatural. I heard rumours of an assassin they call Il Mercante di Sogni, ‘the merchant of dreams’. I think he’s a guiser.”
“What? Are you sure?”
“No. I wish I were. But if there’s even a sliver of a chance it’s true… This changes everything.”
“Witchcraft,” Ned muttered. “I like this less and less.”
They sat in silence for long moments, breakfast forgotten.
“So what do we do about it?” Ned said at last.
“Do? Nothing, at least for now. We shall continue with our business here, though I think I should stay away from Olivia and her patrician friends. Guisers are drawn to power like moths to a flame, and Olivia gathers some of the most powerful men in the city around her.”
Ned shivered despite the growing warmth of the morning.
