Blood and Oak- Wolves Will Eat

by Garrett Bettencourt

  “I’ll tell you where they are.” Dominique collapsed onto her knees. Tears rippled down her cheeks. “I’ll tell you. Please, let Angele go.”

  Naim walked to Dominique and glowered at her.

  “The men found hidden notes in the cages, stuck beneath the bars,” said Dominique. “You’re right—John has your correspondence. He plans to take it to the American embassy, to prove we’re being held here in violation of the treaty and force the bey to release us.”

  “Please,” sneered Naim. “Sullivan? Beg succor from the bey that enslaved him? Never.”

  “It’s the truth—he wrote a letter to me, promising to return.”

  Naim ran his long fingers down her sleeve. His eyes wandered her merlot dress as if lost in thought. “You have not seen what Hamit does to infidel women. It is an ugly sight. So I dare you…” Naim’s eyes flashed up at her, and she saw his barely contained violence. “Lie to me again.”

  As if to drive the point home, Hamit jerked Angele’s hair and ground his hips against her. The helpless marquess cried with abandon.

  “The Janissaries,” Dominique blurted out. “John went to the Janissaries. They smuggled him off the island. Your letters were the price. They wanted proof of your…”

  “Treason,” Naim supplied. He gave a wry smile. “Turn one enemy against another. Now that sounds like Sullivan. But that will not convince Corbaci Ildemir to aid in your rescue. There’s more.”

  “I…saw where the Minerva went down. I can lead the Janissaries to the bey’s sunken tribute.”

  “Hmm,” grunted Naim. He touched an index finger to her cheek and scooped up a tear. “You’ve become a very valuable prisoner, haven’t you, Dominique?”

  Fear overwhelmed her, and Dominique let go a sob.

  Naim turned for the door. “If it soothes your weary conscience, you spared the marquess a very long night with my soldiers.”

  Dominique reached for Naim’s hand, and he reflexively spun around. He slipped his fingers from her grasp, eyes narrowing.

  “Now, this is the most important part,” says John. He’s kneading a puddy-like substance onto her palm, spreading it into a veneer. “After Naim buys the false story, you can’t let him leave the room without touching his ring. You’ve got to press your palm to the signet for a full second. Katie needs the impression to make a copy.”

  “What if he spots the clay?” Dominique is intrigued as she looks at her false layer of skin.

  “What did you tell me about swiping jewels from merchants?”

  “Steal with your eyes, not your hands.”

  “A maxim to make Katie proud. Keep Naim’s attention on you. Convince him with your eyes, and he’ll never notice what’s in your hand.”

  Naim scrutinized Dominique. Her unexpected touch had piqued his suspicion.

  Dominique panicked. She didn’t have the impression of his ring. If she lost this chance… “Chronicler,” she said, shifting her voice up an octave. “Please.”

  Naim knit his brows.

  “If you promise not to harm John…” Dominique added a heady whisper to her voice. “I would be very…grateful.” She drew close, tracing her fingers along his wrist. Her eyes looked up through submissive brows. She caressed his hand, and he met her gaze with curiosity. Her palm closed over his ring. “Deeply, deeply, grateful.”

  Naim yanked his hand away from her. He studied her for a moment. “My dear, how I pity you.” He strode toward the tower stairwell. “Hamit, return the marquess and the captain’s wife to their cells—with their virtue intact.”

  As the Djedid soldiers tramped into the room, Dominique stole a furtive glance at her right palm. The Chronicler’s sigil was seared into the clay like a brand.

  Chapter 19

  The Sea of Marmara Waterfront

  Istanbul, Turkey

  Fifty Years Ago

  “That is not enough for bread, alley rat!” the merchant Ozgen yelled. He scowled over the counter of his stall, the awning snapping in the sea breeze. “Why must you bother me every time you find a piastre in the street, eh?”

  Varlick’s stomach twisted in knots. He salivated at the round loaves piled on the counter. The smells of cooking meat and exotic spices blew through the marketplace. In the din of customers and sellers crammed into the narrow street, Varlick had to raise his eight-year-old voice to its highest volume. “Please, Sidi Ozgen. A bite then. My mama is sick.”

  “Of course she’s sick—she’s a squalid street beggar,” snapped Ozgen as he handed a loaf to a paying customer. “And I do not sell bread by the mouthful. Now off with you, before I call the Janissaries!”

  This couldn’t be. Varlick rubbed the bronze coin between thumb and forefinger. In his dream last night, he saw the coin land in a gutter. This morning, he had searched through piles of gutter filth until he found it—a piastre with the official seal of the Sultan. A worthless penny to most, but salvation to Varlick and his mother. Surely it was God’s will.

  “Sidi Ozgen,” Varlick began anew, remembering why he so often came to the acerbic trader. Ozgen might be stingy, but he was God-fearing. “Allah led me to this piastre in a dream, to spare the life of my mama. And of all the merchants, He led me to you. Mama says Allah rewards those who give, so He must wish rewards upon you.”

  The trader was unusually speechless for a moment. He sighed and pointed to a nearby manger, where three goats munched on straw. “Bread is too coarse for a sick woman. But if you milk all three of my goats, I will let you keep the issue of one.”

  “Thank you, oh generous Ozgen,” cried Varlick, proffering the coin.

  Ozgen gave a smirk. “Keep it. Now get to work, boy.”

  ###

  “Mama!” Varlick crawled into the makeshift tent he shared with his mother. He’d raced back to their alley after milking the goats. “Mama, I have milk! I have milk for you.”

  Mama lay on her back, mumbling beneath a horse blanket. She tossed and turned, dark circles sunken around her eyes. Her soft hair had turned stringy. Little red spots freckled her withered face. Blood oozed from her nose. Worst of all was the smell. He lifted up the blanket to find his mother lying in a pool of her own filth. Her eyes opened for a moment. “Varlick? I was looking for you. I called to you again and again.”

  “I’m sorry, Mama,” said Varlick. “I had to go to market. But I have something!” He uncapped the drinking skin he’d carried back with him and held it to her lips. “Drink, Mama. Drink.”

  It took a moment for Varlick’s mother to register the presence of food. Neither of them had eaten in days. At last, she began to drink. She left only a few gulps for her son, but Varlick didn’t mind.

  “Varlick, my boy. My treasure from Allah.” Mama shuddered, then vomited milk all over the ground. “Sorry to be such trouble. I only need…a little rest.”

  “It’s all right, Mama,” Varlick replied. “You’ll be better soon.”

  His mother slipped back into unconscious babbling. He finished what was left of the milk, then spent the rest of the afternoon cleaning up her accident. He gave her his blanket and took the soiled one to the wharves on the Marmara Sea. With any luck, he could dry it under the sun before nightfall.

  Varlick had just finished washing the blanket under the docks when he heard a moaning sound. He sloshed through the mud and peeked over the stone edge of the wharf. A man staggered against the sandstone wall of a warehouse, one of his feet dragging. He had a clean-shaven face and short hair, and his dark red kaftan marked him as a man of the sultan’s elite guard.

  The man breathed heavily as if exhausted. He paused to lean his back against the wall, and Varlick saw wetness staining his kaftan. Rivers of red trickled down his blue trousers. With no ships docked near these slums, there were few passersby to notice the wounded man ambling along. Somehow, his eyes found Varlick’s from across the street.

  Varlick ducked out of sight, but it was too late.

  “You there, boy,” the man wheezed. His body slid down the wall, streak
ing it with blood. “Come here.”

  Varlick hesitated.

  “Come here, I say, in the name of Sultan Mustafa III!”

  The invocation of the sultan’s name stirred fear in Varlick. A boy could lose his hand for disobeying the sultan’s men—or worse. And if that happened, who would take care of his mother? So, he climbed onto the wharf and dashed over to the wounded man.

  The man coughed violently, and watery blood ran down his chin. “I am an agent of the sultan, carrying a message of great importance. It must reach the palace, for the sultan’s life is in grave danger. I lack the strength…” The man broke into another coughing fit. When he recovered, he continued, “…I lack the strength for the journey. Do you know the way to the palace?”

  “Yes, beyefendi,” Varlick replied.

  The man took a small wax-sealed scroll from his breast pocket and handed it to Varlick. “You will carry this to the gates of the castle with all haste. Tell the guards you have an official chronicle for Soysal, the Nisanci. Do you have that? Soysal Nisanci. Repeat it.”

  “Yes, beyefendi. An official chronicle for Soysal Nisanci.”

  “Good,” wheezed the sultan’s agent. He pulled a gold ring from his finger. It had an elaborate symbol stamped in jade. “Take my signet. It will be…” Another violent coughing fit. “…it will be your…proof.”

  The sound of footsteps pounded on the flagstones. He heard clipped orders from a nearby street. Men were approaching.

  “Quickly!” said the wounded man. “You must…go.”

  Varlick jumped up, looking around frantically. He saw a small culvert at the base of the building a few paces away. It was the kind he often used when he needed to hide. He stuffed himself into the tight space feet first, his body sliding over rat droppings. He was still small enough to fit.

  The moment he pulled his head from view, the sound of the running men echoed across the wharf. Shadows soon darkened the culvert, and he realized pursuers stood over the wounded man. There was a rustling sound as they searched him.

  “Where is it?” asked one.

  The wounded man gave a ragged cough.

  “It isn’t here,” said another. “He must have given it to someone.”

  “Who did you give it to? Who?”

  The wounded man only sputtered and gasped in reply.

  Varlick’s heart pounded as he heard a sound like a knife cutting leather. The man let out a painful groan, and then his breathing stopped. A sand-colored spider as big as Varlick’s hand crawled over his shoulders, but he kept still.

  “Spread out. Find the other courier.”

  The footsteps tramped away. Varlick waited until they were gone, then he scrambled out of the culvert and threw off the hideous spider. The courier sat against the wall, his eyes staring across the water. Blood cascaded from a fresh hole in the man’s chest. Varlick gasped. He was no stranger to death, living in the streets. But its horror never lessened.

  Varlick considered throwing the scroll in the sea. He looked both ways. A few beggars scavenged from a garbage heap. A pair of Janissaries marched in the opposite direction far down the wharves. No one had noticed the murdered man. Varlick could pocket the ring—such a fortune would feed him and his mother for a year.

  Then he thought of his dream. A vision of a single coin to save the life of his mother. Now Varlick understood. Allah gave him a generous gift. How could he not offer one in return?

  Varlick took off running along the docks, through crowded city thoroughfares, and down winding alleys. He hurdled over refuse, dodged horses, squeezed through a herd of sheep. When the gates of the palace were in sight, he ignored his burning lungs and put on a final burst of speed. He was almost to the end of the alley and onto the Sultan’s Road when a figure stepped in his path and caught him, the force knocking the wind from his lungs.

  Imre, a tall boy in his late teens, had Varlick ensnared. “Where do you think you’re going, gutter rat?”

  Two more boys appeared from the adjoining alley, closing in behind Varlick. Imre threw Varlick to the ground. Bile welled up in Varlick’s stomach. He’d managed to avoid Imre for two months. He knew what came next. Some older boys wanted someone to beat or to rob. Imre wanted something worse.

  “I’ve been looking for you, gutter rat,” said Imre. “I thought we had fun together.”

  “Please, you must listen.” Varlick got to his feet. “I am on an important mission for the sultan.”

  The three boys burst into laughter.

  “A mission for the sultan, is it?” laughed Imre. His face darkened with purpose. He reached a hand down to his groin. “Well, I have a mission for you of my own. Get him to the alley.”

  The other boys seized Varlick by the arms. Soon they would have him pinned down, so Imre could “use him like a woman.” Varlick’s mind raced, his eyes staring fervently at the two Janissaries standing guard at the palace gates some seventy yards distant.

  He knew only one thing about Imre that might save him—like all poor boys, the promise of silver could never be ignored. “Help me, and we can all have a grand reward. I can prove it.”

  “What reward?” Imre demanded.

  “I’ll show you,” said Varlick.

  Imre narrowed his eyes, but then he nodded, and the others relented for a moment.

  Varlick got to his feet and held out the jade ring, careful to keep it out of reach. “The signet of the sultan! Help me on my mission, and I will share the reward with you.”

  “How stupid do you think I am? Give me the ring, gutter rat.” With a smug grin, Imre reached for the signet.

  Varlick let it slip through his fingers and ping on the flagstones. In Imre’s split-second of distraction, Varlick kicked with all his might. His foot landed square in Imre’s groin, and the boy doubled over in the street, moaning. Varlick ran, the other two boys close behind. He skidded to a stop between the Janissary guards a second before the boys caught up.

  “Halt!” cried the guard on the left, his bushy mustache snarling. He grabbed Varlick by the shirt. “What’s the meaning of this, boy?”

  “Don’t make us draw swords on you brats,” said the other guard.

  The two bullies behind Varlick took a step back. “Forgive us,” said one. “It was…a mistake.” And then they were running in the opposite direction.

  Varlick breathed heavily. “I come with an important chronicle for Soysal Nisanci. I am sent by an agent of the sultan, to save the sultan’s life.” He pulled the sealed scroll from his trouser pocket and offered it to the guards.

  “Is that right?” said the guard with the bushy mustache. He exchanged a chuckle with his comrade. “A filthy beggar boy has come to save the sultan all by himself? I’m impressed. That’s certainly a new ploy for piastres.”

  “It’s the truth!” insisted Varlick. He reached into his pocket for the ring, then remembered he’d left it in the street with Imre. His only proof, sacrificed for his escape. What could he do now?

  Bushy Mustache seized Varlick by the arm. “Let’s go, boy. Ugh—how you stink! Like the inside of a goat’s ass!”

  “If I am a liar, take my arm,” Varlick blurted out. “For if I am, you will soon know. But if I am not, you will have saved the life of our sultan. What have you to lose?”

  The guards paused at that, exchanging a look. Bushy Mustache took the scroll from Varlick’s hand and offered it to his comrade. The other guard shrugged his shoulders and said, “it does look like an official seal.”

  Shrugging his shoulders, Bushy Mustache let go of Varlick. “All right, boy. Wait here. If the Nisanci pleases, we’ll let you go. But if you’re lying, I’ll cut off your hands and throw you in the sea.”

  Varlick said a silent prayer.

  ###

  It was late in the night when Varlick crawled into the tent he shared with his mother. When the Janissary had returned to the gate, he’d seemed pleased with Varlick. He offered a few piastres and shooed him away. It was no great treasure trove, but it was more we
alth than Varlick ever held. Moreover, he’d kept his hands. He was relieved to find his mother sleeping peacefully.

  “Mama,” Varlick whispered as crawled beside her. “I have such a story to tell you! A man sent me on a great mission to save the sultan, and see?” He held out a handful of coins. “We’re rich! Tomorrow, I will buy food and medicine. Allah has rewarded us, as you always said he would.”

  His mother didn’t reply. She didn’t move.

  “Mama?”

  No answer.

  Varlick gently shook her, his panic rising. “Mama, did you hear me? You’re going to be okay. I have money for medicine. Mama, wake up. Mama!”

  Try as he might, Varlick couldn’t wake her. He shook her harder, and she rolled onto her back. As his eyes adjusted to the dark, he could see hers were wide open. Varlick had seen death often in the streets. He’d seen it earlier today. He knew it well.

  “Mama…” Varlick lay his head beneath her chin and held her close. Her body had gone cold and languid. “Mama…please. Wake up. Didn’t you hear what I said? I have money. Please, don’t leave me. Please…”

  For hours, Varlick sobbed. She was all he had in the world, and now she was gone. For a time, fatigue took over, and he slept. But then he awakened from a nightmare, and the weeping started again. It wasn’t until orange light flowed over the tent cloth that he quieted. He heard the clip-clop of horse hooves coming down the alley, then the sound of boots dismounting.

  “Boy?” called a man’s voice. The voice was soft. Warm. With a learned accent. “Boy? Are you in that tent? I have come looking for the one who delivered a scroll to Soysal Nisanci.”

  Varlick’s eyes searched in the half-light. A part of him wanted to answer out of sheer curiosity. But another part had learned too many terrible lessons in the street, and he stayed quiet.

  “Boy! If you’re in there, come out at once.”

  Reluctantly, Varlick obeyed and crawled out of the tent. He stood up and found himself before a man in a long, crimson kaftan, trimmed in gold lettering and white silk. He held a torch beside a white Arabian horse. The man smelled of amber spice, and his white beard was neatly trimmed and oiled.