It was clear that despite her bravado, Tyranny’s experience with the Citadel had had a strong effect upon her. And Tristan was by now quite sure she was a woman who was not easily frightened. Fascinated, he leaned forward in his chair.
“Could you lead another fleet there if you had to?” he asked eagerly. “Do you really know the way?”
“Of course,” she answered. “I know this ocean as well as anyone alive. But hear me well: Going there is blatant suicide.”
Tristan looked at her for a long moment, absorbing all that he had just heard. The breeze from the open windows wafted through the room, gently moving her scruffy dark hair, and her blue eyes continued to regard him with confidence. A slight smile came to his lips. “So you’re really a pirate?” he asked.
Tyranny smiled. “We prefer to think of ourselves as privateers, doing the work that the vanquished monarchy no longer can. We would, of course, prefer to do so under authenticated letters of marque, but the king and the wizards who might have granted them to us are now all dead.”
“Letters of marque?” Tristan repeated quizzically.
“For the crown prince of Eutracia, you don’t seem to know much about your own history,” she quipped. “Letters of marque were papers granted by the wizards to privateers during the Sorceresses’ War. These documents gave official sanction to the raiding of the Coven’s vessels and the killing of their servants. They also allowed the privateer to legally keep a portion of any of the booty recovered. It was a very nice arrangement, actually. The wizards didn’t have to dirty their hands, and a brave, enterprising privateer could do very well. It was almost impossible to take a ship that had a sorceress aboard, of course. But if one could be found manned only by blood stalkers or unendowed humans who had been pressed into the Coven’s service, it could be a great prize indeed, for the sorceresses’ ships often carried treasure. But those days are long gone, I’m afraid.”
“How do you know all of this?” Tristan asked.
“Some of the original privateers of the Sorceresses’ War were my forebears,” she answered, then inhaled more of the smoke. Leaning back, she arched her back like a cat and adjusted her slim frame slightly in the chair. “When the war ended, their continuing love for the ocean turned them into fishermen. Not as exciting, but infinitely safer. You also might enjoy knowing that the Resolve, the vessel the lead wizard supposedly used to banish the Coven to the Sea of Whispers, was owned by the last of my privateering grandfathers and was loaned to the newly formed Directorate for just that purpose. Her ship’s wheel was taken from her and handed down through the generations. It means a great deal to me, and is now the same one that guides this ship.”
Tristan smiled and shook his head. “And you run my battle flag,” he mused. “The lion and the broadsword. Where did you get it?”
“That was simple,” she replied. “Unfortunately, since the destruction caused by the Coven, your flag can often be found needful of a place to fly. Besides, what other banner should we run in our fight against the demonslavers? I love my country.”
Leaning forward, Tristan placed his glass on the desk. He wasn’t sure he could trust her, but he had no other choice. He looked meaningfully into Tyranny’s wide, blue eyes.
“How would you like to make more kisa than you’ve ever seen in your entire life?” he asked quietly.
“Just now you’re in no position to pay such a sum,” she answered. “And you’re in no position to ask for any favors, either.” Another puff of bluish smoke poured out her nose.
“But my wizards are,” he answered. “And all you would have to do is take me to the Cavalon Delta and release me. From there, you and I could easily make our way to Tammerland, where you would be paid. No harm would befall you, and my wizards would be most appreciative, I assure you. With a word from me, they could conjure enough kisa to sink this ship; certainly more than enough to allow you to continue to look for your brother, and to do so for as long as you need to. We might even be able to help you find him.”
Tyranny removed her long legs from the desk and sat upright in her chair. She ran a quick hand through her short hair, tousling it even further. “The wizards are all dead; everybody knows that,” she answered skeptically, shaking her head. “This is just a trick to secure your release.”
“The reported deaths of the wizards were not entirely true,” Tristan countered. “Wigg, the lead wizard, still lives. As does another named Faegan. In fact, I believe they would be happy to hear about what you have been doing. I might even be able to convince them to give you your letters of marque and recognize you officially, if it means that much to you.”
Then he sat back, desperately hoping his offer was enough. He simply had to get back to Tammerland and give the wizards the scrap of parchment hidden in his boot.
He could see that Tyranny was sorely tempted.
“If I were to do this thing, my price would be the one hundred thousand kisa that were supposedly offered by the warrant,” she said craftily. “And I would also require some form of collateral against the possibility that you’re lying. In that regard, I think the medallion hanging around your neck would do nicely. The quality of its gold appears to be particularly high. Melted down, it would go a long way toward convincing me.”
Tristan looked down at the medallion. He saw that he had little other choice. He looked back up at Tyranny with determined eyes.
“I agree,” he said quietly. “But I have conditions.”
“Conditions?” Tyranny asked. “I could just have Scars come in and take the medallion from you, you know, then set sail for any place I choose.”
“Yes,” he answered. “But I don’t think you will. Something about honor among thieves.”
Silence reigned for a moment, their eyes locked together in a battle of wills.
“What are your conditions?” she asked finally, leaning her arms on the desk.
“No detours—we sail directly to the Cavalon Delta,” he answered. “If other slave ships are sighted on the way, you do not engage them. You are also to return my weapons to me, and keep my real identity a secret on this ship. In addition, when we reach the palace you will draw a chart for my wizards, showing them the exact location of the Citadel. And there is one other thing,” he added.
Tyranny’s blue eyes narrowed. It was clear she wasn’t used to demands. “And that is?”
“You allow me to wear my medallion until our business is concluded, either one way or another.”
Tyranny leaned back in her chair. “You demand a great deal,” she said.
“One hundred thousand kisa is a great deal of money,” he answered. He purposely let his words hang in the air for a moment. “From our current position, how long before we could reach the delta?”
She looked down at one of her charts. “If the winds hold, six days.”
Silence engulfed the room. Tristan held his breath, wondering what her answer would be.
Finally she stood. Raising her right hand, she spat into her palm and held it out. “Done,” she said. Standing up as well, Tristan looked at her quizzically.
“It’s the way a privateer’s bargain was sealed in the old days,” Tyranny said with a wry smile. “And it remains the best.” She held her hand out a bit farther.
Smiling, Tristan spat into his right hand, and took hers into it. “And done,” he answered back. For the first time since entering the room, he thought he might be able to trust her. But only time would tell.
Tyranny pulled a small piece of parchment toward her, took up a quill, and began to write out their agreement. She handed it over to Tristan, and he read it. Like its author, it came straight to the point. Picking up the quill, Tristan signed it with a false name, then handed it back to her.
Studying the fresh signature, Tyranny raised an eyebrow. “This is not who you said you were.”
“I also told you that I did not want your crew to know who I am,” Tristan replied calmly. “You’ve already shown me the warrant and threatened
to turn me in for the reward. What kind of fool would I be if I added my real signature to your documents, as well? Don’t worry—there’s no place for me to run to. When you come before my wizards, you will have your kisa, I assure you. And if I’m lying, you and that monster first mate of yours can easily kill me. You still have a fortune to win and nothing to lose. Take it or leave it.”
After thinking for a moment, Tyranny finally countersigned the agreement, folded the parchment, and slipped it between her breasts. She then called for Scars. The double doors blew open, and the giant was by her side in a flash.
“Return this man’s weapons to him,” she ordered. “He is one of us now. And change course for the Cavalon Delta at full sail. We have new business there.” Then she looked at Tristan.
“Here’s the first rule of The People’s Revenge,” she said. “If you are going to eat our food, you must work for it—regardless of what other circumstances might prevail between us. Scars, take him topside and feed him. Then give him something to do. Perhaps we can make a privateer out of him yet.”
“Agreed,” Tristan answered.
Without further fanfare, Scars escorted the prince from the room.
Standing, Tyranny went to the windows and looked out on the restless sea. Sensing The People’s Revenge heel over to her new course, she smiled.
CHAPTER
Twenty-five
Twenty-Nine watched as his fellow slave pounded the hammer down on the glowing strip of red-hot metal. Then he heard the hiss and saw the steam rise as the man plunged the strip back into the brackish water, tempering it again. The emerging blade would soon become the business end of a short sword and be added to the heap of homely but effective weapons already lying in the far corner of the room.
Other slaves went about fashioning hilts and guards, while still others sharpened and polished the blades. Then the parts would be assembled into the double-edged, razor-sharp swords carried by the demonslavers. On the opposite side of the room, another group of slaves sat fashioning leather into scabbards and baldrics. Periodically a slaver would come in to choose a weapon from the pile of new swords, and tridents.
Twenty-Nine hung his head, still unable to believe that he was plying his craft—which had always been his pride and his passion—for the benefit of these evil monsters.
The simple stone chamber in which he worked was very large and had been hewn directly from the rock, just as the docks had been. A great hole had been fashioned in its ceiling to allow the escape of the smoke generated by the ever-busy hearths. Light was supplied both by the massive oil sconces on the walls, and the surging glow of the orange-red coals. The raucous clanging of the hammers against anvils never seemed to stop, and armed demonslavers paced slowly, watching every move of the hundred or so slaves who toiled here. The room smelled of sweat, soot, and hot iron.
Twenty-Nine remembered when Janus and several of his monstrous servants had first come to where he and his fellow Talis slaves were being held, and demanded to know what their various trades had been. It was a day he would never forget. If they were leathersmiths or weapons makers, the freak had said, then their lives could soon become much easier. There was no point in lying, he had added, for the men in the dark blue robes could enter minds and read the truth. Punishment would be instant death.
And so, hoping that Janus’ promises would somehow hold true, Twenty-Nine and a number of others had raised their hands. It was not long until they all wished they had not.
He looked down at his gnarled, broken hands, knowing that even though he could never properly wield a hammer again, he still carried within him an exquisite, uncommon knowledge of the craft of sword making. Even at the relatively young age of thirty-three Seasons of New Life, he had amassed far greater skill than most of the graybeards who had been fashioning swords their entire lives.
He had owned one of the most prestigious weapons shops in all of Eutracia, and had employed over one hundred artisans, all of them serving under his personal mentorship. He had been one of the largest suppliers of arms to the royal guard, and had even been asked from time to time to craft special ceremonial weapons for the royal house. But those days were long gone, due to the destruction of the Royal Guard at the hands of the winged ones that were rumored to have come from across the sea. Without the continued support of the monarchy, his shop had fallen on hard times.
Then he had been captured and brought to the Citadel. Ironically, some of the very men he had employed in his shop now labored with him here in this living nightmare. And knowing them as he did, Twenty-Nine could tell that they were as ashamed of their work as he was. But once a person was assigned to this area, there was no going back. And Janus had lied to them, for this was a harsher existence than the one they had left behind in the cages.
When they had first been brought here and told that it would be their job to produce arms for the demonslavers, many of them had refused—himself included. Janus had simply smiled and marched in another group of fresh Talis slaves. Then he had calmly ordered his demonslavers to behead them, as casually as though he had been speaking about the weather.
From then on, he had said, every time a craftsman slowed in his production or objected to his duties, the number of deaths would double, and then double again. And so they had grudgingly gone about their work. After repeated questioning by Janus regarding their various histories and abilities, Twenty-Nine had been singled out to oversee the labors of all the others and take ultimate responsibility for the quality of the weapons they made.
He yearned to fight back, but he didn’t know how. He knew his ruined hands could never effectively employ a sword against the slavers. Even if he and his fellow slaves did manage to take up arms, there were more than enough guards stationed in this room alone to cut them to ribbons. But there was one way to hurt them, he realized.
He would take his own life.
For he was the glue that held the workers together and kept them productive. Without his presence the quality of the weapons would suffer drastically. That would not only hurt the demonslavers’ cause, but perhaps even take a few of them when it came time for them to fight. How he wished he could see that day! But he would have to be satisfied with merely taking such knowledge to his grave.
His mood darkened even further as he looked around. Twenty-Nine had always been an honorable man, making superb weapons for the justifiable defense of his nation. This was different. This was the forced production of homely, crude instruments meant for little more than outright butchery of the innocent. And he would have no more of it. Today would be the day.
He began making his way toward the pile of finished weapons in the corner. He was careful to give the appearance of wanting to inspect several of them, as had become his custom. It would not raise any suspicion until it was too late.
Picking up one of the short swords, he felt as much as saw the watchful eyes of several of the demonslavers on him. Taking a deep breath, Twenty-Nine drew the sword and dropped the scabbard to the floor.
Holding the weapon between both palms without wrapping his fingers around it, Twenty-Nine let the blade’s point fall to the floor and bobbed it up and down a bit, testing its balance. Then he grasped the hilt as best his damaged hands would allow, turning it this way and that so as to inspect the crazing on either side of the blade. Satisfied, he gently ran his thumb over one edge at a time, testing the sharpness. Finally he grasped the handle and turned the blade around, extending it as far from his body as he could, its point squarely directed toward his chest and only inches from his skin. Then he made a great show of examining the blood groove for uniformity, just as he had already done hundreds of times before in this awful place. By now his tortured hands had begun to shake, and he desperately hoped he wasn’t about to give himself away.
As he closed his eyes he held the sword as rigidly before him as possible and let his knees collapse.
But as he started to drop a strange whirring passed by his right ear. He felt a huge impact ag
ainst the blade of the sword; heard an awful, earsplitting clang.
Surprised, he opened his eyes and stopped his fall just in time to see the blade go flying against the far wall, then crash harmlessly to the stone floor. Janus’ black-and-white iron spheres, tangled with it, had not only pulled the sword from his hands, but had also cleanly broken its blade in half. The weapon that was to have been both his salvation and his personal revenge on the demonslavers now lay in a broken, useless heap.
Demonslavers grabbed him by either arm and held him tight. He knew what to expect. Janus was standing on the opposite side of the room, gloating. Twenty-Nine hadn’t seen him there.
Saying nothing, Janus walked over to where the damaged sword lay and unwound his weapon from the broken blade. Smiling again, he coiled up the black-and-white line and replaced it upon his belt.
With a single, vicious swipe, Janus struck Twenty-Nine across the face. Groaning softly, Twenty-Nine hung drunkenly between the slavers, trying to regain his focus. Janus grasped Twenty-Nine’s chin and raised the slave’s face up to his own.
“Did you really think it would be so easy?” he asked sarcastically. “You will never be allowed to die until we dictate it, of that I can assure you. But have no fear. Before we are finished with all of you, you will beg us for your deaths. And we will give them to you.”
He looked at the two slavers holding Twenty-Nine.
“From now on, his hands are to be bound behind his back at all times,” he sneered. “Even when he is sleeping. The others shall hold the weapons for him to inspect. When it comes time for him to eat, one of you shall feed him.” Then Janus turned to look at a door at the far end of the room. “As an added incentive to behave, I think we should show this one a bit more of what actually goes on here behind closed doors.”
The Scrolls of the Ancients Page 27
