"Swear that, sir!" Spendlove shuddered.
"Be off, then. Mister Howse? Go to earth, delve yourself the deepest warren ever you did see," Lewrie ordered, "and pull it down over your ears."
"I…!" Howse demurred, casting a glance over his shoulder at the forest. But for the small encampment, it was stark, barren,, full of boulders and wind-gnarled pines, stirred to some mindless, brutal life by the leaping flames of the camp, making it writhe like a mythical Hydra. "But if it is a mistake, sir, I'll be alone… mean t'say, I'd have no way of knowing when to come out, 'less at dawn, after any assault. Should you be allowed to leave unharmed…"
Bloody miracle, most-like, Lewrie coldly realised.
"… I'd be denned up out yonder, no way to leave with you!" Howse concluded, sounding as if being alone, in a wild place, was his last wish, even if his other alternative was getting his throat cut.
"You could come with us, sir?" Alan suggested, tongue-in-cheek. "Mlavic assures me they've a splendid feed planned."
Howse glanced over his other shoulder, at Jester, lying out so safe and snug, her decks lit up with lanthorns; then at the waves on the gravelly beach, breaking slow and sullen and dark, like spilled oil on storm waters. Regretting he could not swim a lick.
"I'll come with you, if you do not mind, sir," Howse snapped, downright snippish.
"Mister Spendlove, still here, damn yer eyes?" Lewrie barked. "Give Mr. Howse your dirk and scabbard, sir."
Spendlove stripped the dirk off reluctantly; it was rather a nice 'un, a present from his parents. Howse took it gingerly, like a man being presented a spitting cobra. But he clipped it on his waistband and folded his coat over it.
Lewrie turned without another word and started striding back to the encampment, an icy, fey and echoing void building under his heart; one hand swinging fisted at his side, the other gripping his hanger by the upper gilt fitting below the hand-guard. He most devoutly wished there was a simple, an innocent, explanation for the absence of French prisoners… but he rather doubted it. Might he talk his way to the beach again? There'd be no other way out.
Asked him 'bout his prize, Lewrie recalled; twice, and he turned all cutty-eyed as a bag o' nails. Somethin' queer, there! Christ, I just wish Howse'd got to me 'fore I told the bastards those orders.
He turned to see Howse plodding along, stumbling a bit on tufts of tough shore grass, the odd shoe-sized rock, looking as miserable as a man on his way to the gallows to do a "Newgate-Hornpipe"!
Before, Mlavic might've been too shameful, Alan regretted; now, though… now I had t'be so gorfdamn' sly-boots an' stir 'em up…!
He was inside the flickering circle of light from the fires by then, elbowing past cavorting, singing, half-drunk pirates, ducking a clash of high-held blades of every cruel description, glittering keen and hungry. He approached the exultantly happy Mlavic…
"Captain Mlavic, sir!" he bellowed. "Want a word with you!"
CHAPTER 3
"Now, sir!" he demanded, once Mlavic had gone stock-still in his tracks and turned to face him, a displeased scowl on his face already.
"What you want? Supper?" Mlavic barked back.
"I want to know what happened to the French prisoners. I want to know why your men didn't let Mister Howse enter the stockade. And who all those women and children are up yonder, sir," Lewrie rasped, deciding to play it high-handed still. Cringing and hand-wringing as meek as a shop-clerk or a diplomat wouldn't suit at all, he thought. Dra-gan Mlavic was a hard man, a bloody-handed brute, and the only language his sort understood was the forceful approach.
"What?" Mlavic chuckled, looking about at his men, as if to say 'Are you crazy?' assuring himself he was in charge here, surrounded by his well-armed minions. "Too fast. My English. You have drink on me, hah? Go slow," he almost implored, shamming sheepish and dumb.
"Put it to him, herr Kolodzcy. In his own tongue."
"Go there," Mlavic snapped, pointing to his hut, wheeling about to exhort his men with a long, cheerful speech, which raised a huzzah. "Talk there. Eat first."
It seemed a tiny tad-bit safer, Lewrie allowed, pivoting on his heel to stalk to the log and fling himself down by his abandoned wine-chalice. Kolodzcy followed, not quite so fastidious this time, sitting without dusting. With his small-sword extending over the back of that log, a slim, dainty-fingered hand on the upper scabbard still. Dragan Mlavic had to follow or break into an unseemly lope to arrive ahead of them. He ended up tailing along behind. For that reason, he remained standing, to assert his questioned authority after they'd sat.
"Brandy?" Mlavic offered, still trying to play "Merry Andrew."
"Once we get this resolved, perhaps, sir," Lewrie said coldly. "Now, where are the French prisoners?"
"Frigate captain… dark hair? He come. Take them to Trieste." Mlavic shrugged, speaking in a deep, guarded voice, and his eyes just too disinterested for Lewrie to believe that.
"When?" Lewrie shot back. "Last I spoke to him, he was going back south, to the straits."
"Yesterday!" Mlavic snapped, going to his stone crock for more plum brandy, miming an offer to share; which was refused. "I come yesterday with prize, frigate man come same day. So many prisoner… I say be trouble, so he take. You go Trieste, ask him," he slyly hinted.
Damme, could be true, Lewrie puzzled; one more prize, and Pylades would have had to leave the straits. Or met up with Charlton, taken over their prizes, so… no! Not that many to take, lately. Spoke to him only five days ago… herel A day to gain the straits, a day back, even if he didn't run into the others… Mine arse on a band-box!
"How many shillings did he pay you, Captain Mlavic?" Lewrie asked. "At a silver shilling per prisoner."
"Three guinea!" Mlavic quickly bristled. "Three pieces of gold, he give."
"Sixty-three shillings… sixty-three prisoners?" Lewrie drawled. "A neat, round number, ain't it? No small change to mess with. Sounds rather too little, though… for the fifty-odd who were here five days ago. Plus the twenty or so from the prize he'd already taken, plus the thirty-five or forty off your latest capture? Closer to five pounds, I'd reckon it, hmm?"
"By God, he cheat me!" Mlavic exclaimed, sounding outraged and all but slapping his poor dumb forehead. "Here, good food. Serb food. You eat. We friends, da? Holy warriors, you… me. Kill many Turks together… kill many enemies together."
"Not in my brief, sorry," Lewrie primly pointed out, "killin' Turks. I'm not at war with Turks."
Some younger Serb lads, barely old enough to be cabin-boys, offered heaping wooden trenchers of food, still steaming from the spits and pots.
"Eat! Drink!" Mlavic urged, digging in with one hand, without utensils, and slurping a pawful down with another draught of brandy. "Is good," he tempted, like a governess with a willful toddler who'd turned his nose up at carrots. "Spice… Serbian, best in world."
Damn him! Alan groused, seeing Howse tentatively dig into his platter; not five minutes away from gettin' yer bowels ripped out and you'd go with a bellyful! Well… no need to be a total Tartar.
"Croat, Albanian… Greek," Kolodzcy whispered in Lewrie's ear. "Turkish!" He snickered. "All de same cuisine. Serb food! Hah!" "Didn't happen t steal some forks, did you?" Lewrie enquired. "Forks, da! Spoons, there," Mlavic said boisterously, indicating a small chest near the doorway of his hut.
Lewrie tried some food, poured himself a bumper of wine from that bottle he'd first opened. It was lamb, skewered on sticks with onion and garlic, some vegetables as well. Underneath was a gravied, fine-milled… tiny round rice-pellets? he wondered. A gnat-sized pasta? Rather infu-riatingly, it was good, heavy and piquant with spices.
"Cow come," Mlavic hinted. "Beef? Aha! 'Roast Beef of Old England.' Da, this I knowing," he said through a mouthful of food. "Or… want goat? Have pig, too. All good."
"Another question, sir…" Lewrie persevered. "Your men kept my surgeon from examining the prisoners in the stockade. Even so, he says he heard women and children up there. Saw women a
nd children in the pen. Who are they, sir?"
"Too many question," Mlavic grumbled, shaking his head, masticating a chunk of bread. "Why too many question? No work. Is time for eat… sing. Flay game." He winked, ever the spirited host. "Who are they, sir?" Alan pressed.
"Be on ship… prize," Mlavic answered without looking up from his trencher, shoving a handful between bread and fingers. "We bring here. Pay way on ship… pass-en-ger? Many, oh many."
"So what have you got to hide, if they're passengers and such?" Lewrie wondered aloud. "Why didn't your guards let Mr. Howse in, as they have before? Women, children… old men… not too many sailors, Mr. Howse tells me. What's different about this lot, that your men kept him from tending to them?"
"No diff'rent," Mlavic insisted, still unable to match gazes with him. "Vhy does French ship engaged in smugglink," Kolodzcy stuck in with a whimsical tone to his voice, "carry passengers, Kapitan? Book vomen unt chiltren aboart, knowink dhere are British warships upon de Mare? Dhat sounts vahry foolish, to me. Vahry… quvestionable. Unt ve do nod see vomen unt chiltren on odder prizes, eider. Chust now."
"Aye, sir," Lewrie snapped. "You afraid word'd get back to yer Ratko Petracic, and he'd be displeased with you?"
"Ratko?" Mlavic bawled, suddenly hugely, frighteningly amused. He let go a belly laugh, had to set his trencher aside, he was laughing so hard he might have spilled it. "Petracic mad, Dragan? Oh, ahahah! Rakto, never! Be ver' please, Dragan. Laugh, too, I tell him. Make big joy, I tell him. Ship I take… well, may not be so please," he admitted with a sheepish shrug. "But people on ship, diff'rent. He have big joy I take them," he insisted, proudly thumping his chest. "And just why'd he be displeased over the ship, sir?" "Damned you!" Mlavic snarled, shoving his plate away, pressed beyond all enjoyment of food. "Too many question. I tell you, da.. . I tell you. Take Venetian ship, da? Give you big joy, know this? Pooh! Is Venetian ship… all rich, all big. See no good prize, see no ships days and days! She be ship I see, she is rich… I take!" He lurched into a furious outburst in his own language.
"To heff carnal knowledche ohf yourself," Kolodzcy translated, shaking his head at Mlavic s utter greed and stupidity. "To go to de Devil… for you to heff carnal knowledche ohf your mother…" "Oh, thankee for that," Lewrie muttered to Kolodzcy. He got to his feet, putting his sternest, iciest "captain's face" on as he waited for Mlavic to run out of expletives. "You know this is the end of our arrangement, Captain Mlavic. You gave your word, swore to us that neutral ships were strictly out-of-bounds, that any prisoners were to be treated decent," he accused. "Now you've broken your vow six ways from Sunday. Took a Venetian ship, most-like you killed her crew, too, didn't you… to spare yourself the trouble of keeping them here? Py-lades hasn't had time to get to the straits, here and back, to take the French prisoners off your hands, either. Did you murder them, too, 'cause you got tired of guarding them?"
Mlavic stood before him, a trifle hangdog, arms crossed over his chest, and glaring at Lewrie s shirtfront, like a defaulter come before "Captain's Mast" for peeing on deck.
"We thought we were dealing with trustworthy men, sir," Lewrie scoffed. "But it will be my unfortunate duty to inform Captain Charlton that you can't be trusted… that no matter Serbian bravery and skill, you can't be trusted out of sight."
Piss down his back a mite, Lewrie thought; maybe I can shame us back to Jester alive!
"No more help, sir. No more alliance. You're on your own, and whatever it is that Petracic does… even if he begins the liberation of all of Serbia… my country's king and government will never award you recognition, or aid, or… You're on your own, from this moment on."
"Serbs on own, ever!" Mlavic grunted, lifting his eyes at last. "Enemies everywhere… help, none. Pooh!" He spat on the ground. "I tell you, Serbs no need English help."
"Then how'd you get your damn' brig… sir?" Lewrie smugly reminded him.
"I would have take… you get in way!" Mlavic shot back.
"Now you can keep that ship… and God help you," Lewrie said, sensing he might have overplayed it, and not liking the truculence he saw returning to Mlavic's face. "All her valuables, too. But those Venetian prisoners, those women and children, come with me, sir. I'll take them aboard Jester and see 'em safe to Venice. Shilling per head, same as before. 'Cause I can't trust you to keep them. You'd violate your word again… end up murdering them. Like your Frenchmen, hmm?"
Mlavic put his fists on his hips, glared at the ground between them and made idle scuffing motions with his brand-spanking-new boots for a moment or two.
"Da. Kill French," he confessed. "Be too much trouble, watch… feed. Die quick, and feed to sharks," he admitted, waving a hand out toward the west and the open sea. "See Dragan take Venetian ship, speak new prisoner… news is getting out, da? I keep ship. I keep all cargo."
"Then if you'll bring the prisoners down, I'll send to my ship for boats, and…" Lewrie nodded in agreement, feeling a sudden rush of almost blissful relief. He could hear Howse and Kolodzcy sighing.
"No," Mlavic said, almost pouting. "Keep prisoner, too. Not all Venetian. In ship are Muslims, go Ragusa, Cattaro, Durazzo. In ship are Montenegran, Albanian… Bosnian!" he spat, as if being a Slavic coastal Muslim were the ultimate scum, as bad as Hindoo "untouchables." He glared at Lewrie, a gay smile beginning to lift his mouth, a crafty crinkle round his beady, close-set pig-eyes. "Enemies. Have still to play… games." Dragan Mlavic tittered.
"Sir, I must protest!" Lewrie barked. "How could innocent women and children be your enemies? How dare you insinuate you'd-"
"Child grow up… kill and torture Serbs. Woman have enemy child, grow up… murder Serbs. Enemy men have murder Serbs. Serbs see father, mother… whole family, torture and kill. Make good Serb Orthodox, Catholic… Muslim! Then kill. In ship are Macedonian, in ship are Greeks! Same as Turk, same as Byzantium who let Turk armies in Serbia. No… I keep. We play games."
"Jesus bloody Christ.. ." Lewrie gasped, his mouth agape, never so appalled, so laid ail-aback, his entire life! His innards and his spine went icy as he realised that Mlavic meant to torture, rape, then slay his prisoners. Even icier, he felt-nigh to shivering in fear-as he realised that Mlavie had murdered the French prisoners so they'd not be able to pass the word that he'd taken a Venetian ship; nor tell one word about the massacre he'd planned, soon as he'd captured her!
And he, Mr. Howse, and Leutnant Kolodzcy were now witnesses, too!
He plan t'murder us, too? Alan reeled, searching for a way out. Those prisoners ain't no friends o' mine, so would he let us go, 'fore his goddamn games begin? No, damme, I can't just…!
"Captain Mlavic…" Lewrie said, firm as he could, after thinking quickly, gazing into those agate-hard eyes, that upper-handed leer. "Again I protest! No civilised man would do such a thing, even dream of doing such a thing. Give me the women and children, at least. You cant hurt women and children, man… it just ain't done! Let me have them, and we'll go. Then you can hold whatever sort o' bloody games you wish. And be damned to you, you ugly, black-hearted bastard!"
"You stay," Mlavic pronounced, beginning to beam quite gladly.
"Be damned if I will, sir!"
"You stay," Mlavic insisted. "You watch. I say you stay… I say you go. Dragan Mlavic captain here. I say you stay, now."
"Going to make us, are you? With a sloop o' war not one cable off the beach?" Lewrie sneered. "Eat shit, an' die!"
Mlavic did the very worst thing then-he began to chuckle, then to laugh out loud, chilling them all to their bones. He put two fingers in his mouth and gave a shrill whistle. Instantly there were six of his pirates on them, coming from round the rear of the hut, to pinion their arms, strip them of swords and pat them down for knives or pocket-pistols.
"You damn fool!" Lewrie raged, thrashing against the grasp of two strong men. "Lay hands on a British officer, sir? Don't you know my First Lieutenant will get to wond'rin' what's keeping me? Hears or sees what you're doing… why, he'll blow your filthy ars
e to Hell!"
Mlavic laughed out loud again, then gave a second whistle.
"Come wrong time, British," he said with a sneer, putting his face within inches of Lewrie's as he was wrestled to his knees before Mlavic. Have go safe, but you come camp, ask too much question You go sate? Die, tonight? Dragan Mlavic say, hah! You stay, watch games Ratko plan holy thing, now I do holy thing… get men hot to war on enemy. What your ship do, I hold you, doctor, girlie-man, long as want? Him, too."
Three sailors came lumbering into the firelight, dragging their burden, which kicked, yelped and twisted-Midshipman Spendlove!
'Sorry, sir… barely got into the water 'fore…!"
Oh shit, we're in the quag now! Alan shuddered, feeling those few bites of food or sips of wine, turn to scalding acid, threatening to come up and sear his throat. He really means Ј'scrag us!
CHAPTER 4
The first victim was bound to a log. A burning log.
He was an older man, blond-haired and blond-bearded, a Slav who cried out and protested as he was forced to eat pork, stripped so he could be smeared on his face and chest-then chained atop a log as long as he was, that had been rolled away from a cook-fire. What agony he suffered they could barely hear above the jeers and taunts of Mlavic s pirates. He was a Muslim Slav, though, one who'd surely killed Serbs when young and fit, so… he had to die, slowly.
His wife was in her middle years, too, a properly plump matron with a round face and a pale complexion, with fair, greying hair under her Turk-style head covering. She was forced to watch her husband burn, before they made him watch her suffer. They stripped her, found her too round and withered to rape in a chorus of catcalls and boos, so she was slit open, belly and womb, and filled with searing-hot hearthstones.
The youngest son, who'd traveled with them to safe Venetian Spalato, on a safe Venetian ship, was about twelve. The pirates sliced his genitals off, then took him by wrists and ankles and heave-hoed him in the air- once, twice and thrice-and caught him on the points of a dozen swords.
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