Scoundrel

by Zoë Archer

  “I wish we did not have to trust an outsider for this mission,” she said to Bennett. “It leaves us vulnerable.”

  “I sure as hell can’t sail a boat,” he pointed out. “Neither can you. We’ve got to get to Delos. Likely beyond, too. Besides,” he added, “your contact assured us that this man is trustworthy.”

  “Or, at the least, is willing to be paid for silence.”

  “We’ve abundant coin, if it comes to that. This is it,” he said, stopping by a boat tied to the pier. It was a cargo caique, a typical boat of the region, roughly seventy feet long, with a rounded fore and aft and two triangular lateen sails, now furled. Portholes attested to below-deck cabins, though they would not be very large. A loving hand had painted the hull bright emerald, the tiller a vivid yellow, and kept the whole of the boat a sparkling gem, especially compared to some of the shabbier maritime specimens in the harbor.

  “You!” Athena called out to one of two seamen coiling rope on deck. “Are you Nikos Kallas?”

  “No, captain’s below,” the man grunted back.

  “Then get him,” she ordered imperiously. When the man just stared at her, she added coldly, “Now.”

  Muttering, the sailor slouched off to the quarterdeck house to find his captain.

  “Consider being a bit more…diplomatic,” Bennett suggested wryly.

  “Why?” shrugged Athena. “These are rough men. They do not care for social niceties.”

  After a moment, a man emerged from the quarterdeck house with the first sailor trailing behind him. The captain. He wore the loose blue trousers of a mariner, and a full white shirt with a dark sash wound about his waist. A small, powerfully built man, he squinted at Bennett and Athena from behind the smoke of his pipe. “I’m Kallas,” he called in a gravelly voice. “Who wants me?” He looked at Bennett with sharp, assessing eyes. Sensing a possible threat, he changed his stance slightly, a shifting of position onto the balls of his feet to ready for a fight. This one, Bennett understood, missed nothing.

  “Petros Spirtos sent us,” Athena answered.

  The sea captain turned his gaze from Bennett to Athena. For a moment, the two simply stared at each other, each seemingly unmoved, but Bennett heard Athena’s soft inhalation and saw Kallas’s hands curl as though trying to grasp something. Oho, Bennett thought. What have we here?

  “No shouting across the marina,” Bennett said. “We’re coming aboard.”

  “As you like.” Kallas shrugged.

  In a moment, Bennett was hopping over the railing of the boat, then turned to help Athena gracefully descend onto the top deck. The two crewmen gaped at Athena in her elegant bronze silk dress and matching parasol, until Kallas shouted something at them in a dialect Bennett could not understand. Even though the crewmen were several inches taller than their captain, they hastened to obey and scuttled off.

  “Bennett Day,” he introduced himself, “and Athena Galanos.”

  “Spirtos told me about you,” Kallas said, shaking Bennett’s hand, “about what you need.”

  “So you know everything,” Bennett said. When the captain nodded, Bennett said, “Speed and discretion. That’s what we need.”

  Kallas stroked his full, dark mustache. “If it keeps more foreigners out of Greece, then my ship and my crew are yours. No offense to you, Englishman.”

  “All insults are deserved and well earned. My friend and I have gear we’ll need to store in your hold. Some guns, as well.”

  “Always good to be prepared,” Kallas said.

  “Do you mind danger?”

  The captain grinned, his teeth white and straight in his sun-darkened face. “The Kallas men have pursued many kinds of living on the sea.”

  “Piracy, you mean,” Athena said.

  Kallas narrowed his eyes as he moved closer to Athena. Bennett watched her struggle not to take a step back, despite the fact that they were the same height. She straightened her spine as the captain slowly looked her up and down.

  “What would a high-born lady like you know of working for your bread?” he growled.

  “I find that bread tastes much better if you do not steal it,” she answered. “The Galanos women find respectable ways to feed their daughters.”

  “Fortunate for you, then, that Kallas men are not so respectable. Or I wouldn’t agree to hire out myself and my ship. Especially not to aristos.”

  “A wonderful family picnic,” Bennett interjected, stepping between them. “Kallas men, Galanos women. Some grassy hilltop. Ouzo. Walnuts and grapes. We’ll plan the menu later. But tell me, how suspect are your morals?”

  Kallas turned his attention from a seething Athena. “What did you have in mind?”

  “Kidnapping a lady.”

  “Is she pretty?”

  “Very.”

  Kallas smiled, shaking Bennett’s hand again. “Then we’ll get along, you and I.”

  She hadn’t much experience with ships except the one that had brought her to Greece. Departing from Southampton, they’d taken a top-of-the-line triple-masted steamer around the Iberian peninsula, skirting the coast all the way to Gibraltar, to Monte Carlo, then past Sicily, up around Italy to Brindisi, and finally Corfu to Athens. That ship had been surprisingly lavish, with an elegant dining room, two salons, and a card room, plus a host of men and women seated on folding chairs on deck whilst wrapped in flannel.

  She knew that their sailing accommodations from Piraeus to Delos would be less opulent. It did not matter to her if the ship hadn’t a conservatory. But this…this was entirely different from what she had anticipated.

  “Do we really need so many guns, Father?” she asked as she was helped aboard by one of the ship’s crew. Turning to watch her luggage being hauled up the side of the ship, she found herself staring at the cannons that poked from gun ports like lethal iron fingers. And, on the fore deck, squatted a gun turret and two more cannons, one fore and another aft.

  Her father already stood on deck, and surveyed their ship with an approving nod. It was iron hulled with two telescoping funnels and two schooner masts, further powered by a steam-driven wheel at its center. A contradiction between this ship and the others merrily floating in the harbor. The Greek crew, too, looked hardened and intimidating, not returning London’s smiles and nods of greeting.

  “I know it isn’t very luxurious,” her father said. “But you must try and bear up, if it isn’t too taxing.”

  “It’s not taxing in the least,” she said. “But it’s the weapons that alarm me.”

  Thomas Fraser, already turning pink in the late afternoon sun, stood next to her. “We must be prepared,” he said. “I’m sure you are familiar with the terrible events five years ago, when brigands captured a party of British tourists near Marathon and demanded a ransom. Many of their captives died during the rescue attempt.”

  “An awful tragedy,” London said quietly.

  “And your father has already spoken of enemies, Mrs. Harcourt, of which you may have already met. So the guns are, indeed, necessary.”

  “I hope we don’t have to use them.”

  Fraser merely shrugged. Then he turned away, and he and her father spoke with the ship’s captain. Sally yelped instructions to the men hauling the luggage over the side of the ship. Left to herself, London went to the railing and watched the harbor with its traffic of ships, but her thoughts strayed back to Ben Drayton. Perhaps he truly was one of her father’s enemies. She wanted to dismiss the idea outright. They’d shared something, a link or bond that she barely understood but felt deeply. When she was with him, she felt freer, more her true self that had been buried for most of her life. And, it was true, her body wanted him, wanted him fiercely.

  Yet she could not dismiss how he had transformed so utterly and quickly in the garden last night from a seductive, charming rake into a flint-eyed man capable of anything. And she recalled his mastery of moving within the shadows as if he were part phantom.

  Had it been wrong to find him so attractive, when he could
mean her and her father harm? London prayed that she would never have to see Drayton again and test her willpower. Still, she couldn’t stop her mind from tormenting her with thoughts of what it might be like to kiss him, to have his hands upon her uncovered skin.

  A new voice speaking English behind her caused London to turn around. Standing with her father and Fraser was a tall, skeletal man whose bloodless skin gleamed like hoar-frost in the bright Aegean sunlight. A thin fringe of colorless hair ringed his head, and he was dressed soberly in black and gray. London could not stop herself from staring at the onyx ring glinting on his right index finger. Something cold spiraled through her bones as she looked at him.

  “London,” her father called, “come and meet my colleague.”

  With reluctant steps, London went to join the men.

  “London,” Father continued, “this is John Chernock. He will be accompanying us on our voyage and advising Fraser and I. Chernock, my daughter, London Harcourt.”

  She gave the man a restrained nod, hoping she could keep her immediate dislike of him hidden. He smirked at her as though reading her mind. “I knew your late husband, Mrs. Harcourt,” he drawled. “And I’m sure you do him and your father credit.”

  “Thank you,” London said with a thin smile. “Father, I think I’ll find my cabin and settle in.”

  “Of course. Sally!” her father shouted. “Take your mistress to her cabin.”

  London was about to state that she could find her quarters on her own, but the maid appeared to provide escort. London gave the men a brief curtsey and then hurried below deck, with Sally scurrying after her. She wanted to put as much distance between herself and Chernock as possible. It would be difficult, though, since the ship was only two hundred and fifty feet long and not, as she hoped, two hundred and fifty miles. She had a feeling that there was no distance far away enough from that walking stalactite her father called a colleague.

  As soon as London disappeared into the ship, Chernock addressed Edgeworth. “A pretty young woman, your daughter.”

  “She’s promised to me,” Fraser grumbled.

  “I didn’t promise anyone to anybody,” Edgeworth said, his voice cutting. “Henry Lamb insisted that he’d prove himself to me in order to win the right to court her, and look what happened to that fool. Killed by Blades in the Gobi Desert. Killed by a woman, for God’s sake.” Base emotion, which Edgeworth struggled his whole life to contain, clogged his throat. “And his blunder ruined my only son.”

  Chernock nodded. “Lamb’s abject failure forced Jonas to return to England through the Transportive Fire.”

  “Is such a thing possible?” asked Fraser, aghast.

  “No man had attempted it before,” said Chernock, darkly, “and now we know why.”

  Edgeworth growled, “His burns finally healed, but the scarring is abominable. Damn it!” He turned away to rub his stinging eyes on the sleeve of his jacket, trembling with fury. He vowed to himself that the Blades of the Rose would pay for the damage done to his son. Jonas was to have succeeded him as a leader amongst the Heirs of Albion, but that dream died when his son came back from Mongolia a twisted, burnt husk, his mind more damaged than his body.

  Edgeworth refused to believe that Jonas’s retreat had been anything less than honorable, even though he had heard the whispers. Jonas had fled, it was true, and with terrible haste, but only because Lamb had failed, because the Blades persisted in their foolish, sentimental quest to keep the world’s magic from the hands of the Heirs.

  “He made a brave sacrifice for his country,” Fraser said, placating. “Jonas holds, as we all do, that Britain deserves to command the globe. Its nation, and its citizens, are superior to all others.”

  “The apotheosis of culture and statehood,” Chernock seconded.

  Fraser shot Chernock a quick, cutting look. Edgeworth was his to appease and flatter, and Fraser wouldn’t stand for some skeleton of a man to ride on his coattails. He continued, “The Heirs of Albion willingly give their lives for this belief. I know I would, given the chance.”

  “It’s those Blades that play the gadfly,” Chernock sneered. “With their absurd conviction that no nation should rule over another. A mawkish ethos.”

  When Edgeworth felt he could better suppress his feelings, he turned back to Chernock and Fraser. “We’ll have them beaten, soon,” he vowed. “Even now, in England, our finest minds are unlocking the secrets of the Primal Source. Between that and the Source here in Greece, we shall finally stamp out the Blades. That’s what Lamb was supposed to do.”

  “Lamb was vain and bloodthirsty,” Chernock sniffed. “We are better off without him. He was a liability to the Heirs. We need trustworthy men. Yet,” he added, looking pointedly at Edgeworth, “for the first time in our long history, it seems we have a woman in our ranks. I would never presume to question you, Edgeworth, but is this wise? Women are so fragile and emotional. She could be set astray by her feminine sensibilities.”

  “Don’t question her obedience to me. She’ll do exactly as she’s told. We’ve only to lead her like a child, keep her sheltered from unwanted influence.”

  “And if she succeeds in her objective,” Chernock persisted, “will the Heirs begin adding women to our confraternity?”

  “Of course not,” Edgeworth scoffed. “If she makes herself useful, and if this Source is recovered without too much interference from those damned Blades, then I will see her married as soon as we return to England. Yes, Fraser. If you impress me enough on this mission, I may reward you with her. You ought to control her better than Harcourt did.”

  Fraser’s meaty face broke into a smile. “Thank you, Mr. Edgeworth.”

  “Those are numerous ‘ifs,’” Chernock pointed out. Fraser glared at him.

  Edgeworth’s eyes were glacial. “But that’s why we have you, my dear sorcerer.”

  “If the Blades do show themselves,” Chernock said with a funereal smile, “then I very much look forward to practicing some of my newer spells on them. There is one, taken from a Hopi shaman I captured, that is most delightful. Giant spiders, you know, with poisoned webs. Exceedingly nasty. Shall I demonstrate?” He lifted his bony hands, the ebony ring glittering like a huge beetle, as Edgeworth and Fraser took a step back.

  “Later, perhaps,” Edgeworth said quickly. “You both must understand what this mission means to the Heirs, what is at stake, particularly now that we have the Primal Source. I wouldn’t have brought a woman, my own daughter, into it without good cause.” He turned to the captain, who was shouting orders to his men. “Captain, I want us to raise anchor within the hour. No excuses,” he snarled when the captain began to object. “I am not to be contradicted. We sail before five o’clock.” With that, Edgeworth stalked below deck, confident that he would be obeyed. No one ever said no to Joseph Edgeworth.

  The cities of the world held unending fascination for Bennett. He’d been to many, more than most men could ever claim. The capitals of Europe, and beyond. Moscow. Cairo. Bombay. Peking. Each was a continually unfolding banquet of experience—and women. Yet, for all their exotic and cosmopolitan joys, Bennett never felt as much unfettered joy as he did when presented with the open road. In this case, the open sea.

  Nikos Kallas proved himself a sure and able captain as he and his men sailed them away from Piraeus. They nimbly dodged other boats and ships, all coming in and out of the crowded harbor, and moved away from the coast that pushed eastward into Aegean. Cliffs and coastal towns shrank to dark, rocky forms as the impossible lapis blue of water grew and unfolded. Cape Sounion, and its hilltop temple dedicated to Poseidon, glided by as they moved out of the bay into the open sea. The waters were silken calm, and a soft breeze filled the sails, burnished gold by the rays of the sun setting to the west. Anywhere. The sea and the wind could take them anywhere. Limitless freedom. That’s why men went to sea again and again. But women, land-bound and earthly warm, brought them back.

  It was a woman he followed now. She was on the Heirs’ st
eamship, speeding east. Thank Poseidon that Kallas was a skilled captain. He had to get to London Harcourt before the Heirs reached Delos. Bennett’s plan would never work if the Heirs made land before he could reach her.

  He urged the caique on, willing it to cut through the waves like an arrow.

  Athena had been born and raised in the city that shared her name, and so it took her a small measure of time to gain her sea legs. Bennett watched her walk toward him on deck with the careful precision of a drunkard fighting for balance. Her dusky-fair skin had paled once the caique had reached open water. She came to stand next to him, swaying, as he stood near the bowsprit at the fore.

  “Gone a bit green,” he commented. “Like an unripe olive.”

  Athena gave a wan smile. “Always with such flattery. What woman would be foolish enough to let you leave her?”

  “You did,” Bennett pointed out amiably.

  “I am better than most women.”

  “True. Our captain might agree.”

  Athena made a noise of dismissal, though it proved to be a bit of a challenge in her compromised state. “Nikos Kallas has made no secret of his dislike of refined, educated women. Which does not surprise me, given his low origins.”

  Bennett raised his eyebrows, but decided to remain quiet on this point. Interesting, how this might develop, if they were all to share the same, not particularly large boat for the foreseeable future. Instead, he asked, “Feeling well enough for tonight’s adventure?”

  “Absolutely,” she said at once. “Though,” she added, “I have never attempted a spell of such size before.”

  “I’ve every confidence in you.”

  “Kidnapping is new territory for me.”

  “Don’t usually dabble in it, myself,” he admitted. “Not to worry, though. Blades have ‘spirited away’ people before. When a powerful Source is at stake.”