Blood and Oak- Wolves Will Eat

by Garrett Bettencourt

  “Who are they?” asked John.

  “They’re Berbers. Nomadic goat herders. They sometimes camp in these ruins. They were friends of the Silver Hand.”

  “And the Red Hart, it seems,” said Declan.

  Kaitlin looked at her father, firelight setting her red hair aglow. “Aye, and the Red Hart, I suppose.”

  The old woman, swaddled in roughspun blankets and huddled close to the cookpot, nodded in Kaitlin’s direction and said a few foreign words. They didn’t sound Arabic, nor were they Lingua Franca. Kaitlin replied in the same language, and though John couldn’t understand, he guessed it was an apology.

  The father’s eyes narrowed, and the mother continued to frown, but they relaxed at Kaitlin’s words. The old woman said something else to Kaitlin and gave her a warm smile.

  John wondered what she said, but Kaitlin was on the move again. They left the Berbers behind and climbed a flight of stairs half-buried in sand. The baths gave way to an ancient graveyard, then a marketplace, and later a row of cisterns shaped like half-buried cylinders.

  John caught up to Kaitlin. “So how long will it take your fence to copy Naim’s ring?”

  “I don’t know.” Her eyes were wandering among the cisterns as if she were lost in thought. “Buford is the best blacksmith I know. If he can’t copy Dominique’s mold, no one can. But it could take more than a day.”

  “We may not have that much time. It’s not enough to forge a message from Naim—we have to get it to the Janissaries before Naim confronts them. We need them to leave their docks unguarded.”

  “I’m a thief, not no bloody sorcerer! It takes how long it takes.”

  “All right, Kait, all right. No need to be cross. I only want our plan to succeed.”

  “Your plan.” Kaitlin spat the words like spoiled beef. “And it’s a fool one. I met Naim a year ago. And I’ve read his ‘chronicles.’ Folk always believe they can outsmart him, or out-plan him, or out-fight him. Just like you, Johnny. And it’s what Naim will let you think—right up until you’re dead.”

  “You’re right, Kait. He’s counting on us underestimating him, and that’s exactly why we won’t. We can beat him, Kait. I know it.”

  Kaitlin sighed as if exhausted. “No we can’t. No one can beat him.”

  John smiled. “You did.”

  The thief glanced up at her brother, blinking.

  John gave his sister a shoulder nudge. “Good thing I have the Red Hart on my side.”

  Kaitlin looked away, hiding behind her cowl.

  The party followed her onto the roof of the last cistern. Ethan and John helped Declan find his footing, then followed Kaitlin to a trap door in the stone. She slipped a metal pin into a lock, and there was a click. The gate whined as she threw it open.

  “We’re here.” Kaitlin climbed a ladder down into the dry cistern.

  John followed her down, and the air inside smelled of dust and Turkish spices. As he landed on the ground, a lantern flared to life. The light crawled over a hollow between two mounds of earth clogging either end of the cistern. A pile of ash and a rusty pot sat between two bedrolls. Various tools, ropes, and satchels hung from pegs. Pewter dishes littered the space. Kaitlin was fiddling with a locked chest in the corner.

  Declan climbed down the ladder, stretched his legs, and said, “Is this where you’ve been living love?”

  “Aye.” Kaitlin didn’t look up from the chest. “This is my hideout.”

  “And who slept there?” Declan nodded at the other bedroll, which lay next to a brass oil lamp and a figurine of a multi-armed woman.

  Kaitlin looked over her shoulder at the empty bedroll. “That was Rune’s bed.”

  “Oh…I’m sorry, love.”

  Ethan closed the hatch over the roof and climbed down the ladder. “It’s cozy down here.”

  The lid of the chest creaked open. Kaitlin sat still on her haunches, staring inside.

  John shared a look with Ethan and Declan. They all sensed the change in Kaitlin since the escape. Something was wrong. John walked over and knelt beside her. Inside the chest lay a silver-gilt horn, with the funnel pointing upward. The metal work tapered down into the slender statue of a majestic goat. Majestic because—unlike its ordinary cousins—this animal’s horns formed a perfect loop, with the points ending at the base of the creature’s skull.

  “It’s beautiful,” said John.

  “Yes,” said Kaitlin. “It’s all I have left. I spent everything else on the job to rescue you and Da.”

  John picked up the horn, examining it.

  “The Gilded Ibex,” Kaitlin said. “According to legend, it belonged to the Persian King Darius in the 6th century before Christ. Very rare. Guildmaster Ibrahim dearly wanted it.”

  John set the ibex back in the trunk. “What’s the matter, Rabbit?”

  “Nothing.” Kaitlin ran a sleeve under her nose. “It’s just…Rune and I planned this mission for months. Together. One last job to earn freedom for me, Mam, and Da. A year ago, Rune and I were to steal the ibex from the bey’s palace. The night he came.”

  “Naim,” said John.

  “I could have fenced it a long time ago. A couple of nights, when I got really hungry, I almost did. But…I couldn’t.” A tear fell from Kaitlin’s eye and pinged on the horn.

  Declan knelt on the other side of Kaitlin. “It reminded you of Rune.”

  “It’s all I have left of him.” Kaitlin picked up the artifact. She held it to her chest as if she were a little girl clutching a doll. “I can’t let it go. You don’t know how hard it’s been, all alone this past year. Rune was my best friend and the one who taught me to be a thief. He taught me to survive. And that evil man murdered him. Now I see Varlick Naim every night in my dreams.” Kaitlin rose to her feet and paced to the other side of the den. She’d grown tall for fourteen—only a foot shorter than John. But despite her strength and newfound maturity, she couldn’t hide her sobs.

  John’s heart plunged. Declan had described Rune’s death in graphic detail two nights ago, under duress from Naim. Seeing his sister’s pain, John wished he could have saved the boy’s life. If only he’d launched his mission sooner. If only he’d been a better man. “Keep it, Rabbit. We’ll find another way.”

  “John’s right,” Ethan said. “You’re the only reason we’ve come this far. A little more gold won’t stop Naim. My money’s on you. So if you say we don’t need the ibex, then we don’t need it.”

  Kaitlin looked at Ethan, her eyes hiding behind her curls.

  Ethan looked at the ground. “I know what it’s like to want to hold on to someone. To want them back so bad, anything they ever touched is a golden horn. I slept with my father’s slippers for a week. But I try to remember he is only gone in body, not in spirit.”

  “The Ātman lives on,” Kaitlin murmured as if only to herself. “Did you take his slippers with you on your ship?”

  “No,” Ethan laughed. “I left them under my bed.”

  “But he wanted to,” John added. “I had to talk him out of it.”

  “It’s true.” Ethan shrugged.

  “I don’t know another way to do this,” said Kaitlin. “But how can I let the ibex go?”

  “If selling that ibex would help you go free,” Ethan said, “what do you think Rune would want?”

  Kaitlin wiped tears from her face. She thought for a moment, then tucked the ibex into her satchel. “Aye, then.”

  “Aye, then,” said Ethan.

  “Aye, then,” said John.

  “What’s next, love?” asked Declan.

  “Follow me,” said Kaitlin. She crouched near the base of the cistern wall and reached into a crack. Sand puffed into the air as a slab came away, revealing a crawlspace. “This old aqueduct will take us under the city walls. Bring those satchels.” She pointed to a few leather packs piled near the entrance.

  After slinging the satchels over his back, John squeezed into the tunnel on hands and knees.

  Ethan climbed in next. His
voice galloped down the tunnel when he said, “There aren’t rats down here, are there?”

  Chapter 22

  The Palace of the Bey

  The City of Tunis

  Monday, September 12th, 1803

  Day 3, Pre-Dawn Hours

  In the last hours before dawn, Varlick Naim stood in the throne room of Bey Hammuda, listening to the fat sovereign rant. Torches crackled in sconces on marble columns. Borders of golden letters came alive near the flames. Tiles fanned out in geometric patterns from the floor to the domed ceiling. The occasional gust of wind blew through the open doors to the courtyard, causing the torches to flare. Janissary guards stood at silent attention, dressed in loose-fitting uniforms and tall felt hats, muskets upright against their shoulders. Their eyes were on Naim, who stood at the center of the vast space, twenty paces from the throne.

  Bey Hammuda sat atop his couch, surrounded by pillows and swaddled in silk. “The Nizam-I Djedid have occupied a Janissary barracks in my palace for two years,” Bey Hammuda was saying. “They have consumed large quantities of food and drink, helped themselves to horses and camels and taken what weapons and powder they pleased! I have honored the sultan’s every wish, but now his soldiers strain my city’s treasury. Nevertheless, as Sultan Selim III’s humble servant, I am happy to be of service to his chronicler. I ask only to know when his chronicler’s mission might end, and yet I receive no reply!”

  Listening to the Bey’s insufferable braying took a toll on Naim. The greedy potentate disgusted him. Even through loose robes, Hammuda’s belly spilled over his thighs. His turban was as garish as he himself—studded with topazes, sapphires, and rubies. He stroked his long beard with jewel-bedecked fingers. Treasures extorted from a dozen nations surrounded him—nations he would never raise his own sword to conquer.

  “How many times have I called you to my presence, Varlick Naim,” Hammuda went on, “and how many times have you spurned my entreaties? I have shown great reverence for your place of high esteem in the Empire. Can I not expect the same in return? How do you answer these grievances?”

  Naim folded his arms under his kaftan. This audience should have been unnecessary. Sultan Selim had ordered the bey’s cooperation with Naim. But that had been two years ago, and it became necessary to extend that order by intimidating the Tunisian populace. It worked for a time. Naim had strategically deployed the Nizam-I Djedid in the palace and the Lake Fort, built a faction of pirates loyal only to himself, and used his feared reputation to keep the bey in line. The sultan had grown conspicuously silent in recent weeks, leaving Naim’s position in Tunis ever more precarious. Commandeering the bey’s flagship, Wolf of Tunis, to hunt down Sullivan had been the last straw for the beleaguered bey. Had Sullivan not escaped, none of that would have mattered. If Naim had any hope of catching the fugitives, he would need to keep his grip on the city.

  “My bey,” Naim began, bowing deeply, “I stand before you a humble servant of the sultan, honored by your boundless hospitality. I am disturbed you feel neglected by my attention. Let me assure you, only duties of the gravest urgency kept me from your court.”

  “And do your duties include sinking a ship full of my tribute?” The bey seized a fistful of his own beard, hand trembling. “The United States kept me waiting months for those promised gifts, lost now to the guns of my own ship!”

  “On the contrary, my bey, I was acting on your behalf. Re’is Hamit uncovered an American plot to steal your tribute and lay the blame on pirates. I sent the Wolf of Tunis to thwart it, but it was too late.”

  “What?!” Hammuda’s face flushed red. “Yussef, what do you know of this?”

  The male lover of the bey sauntered out of the shadows and came to stand beside the throne. Yussef Sapatapa wore his usual gossamer pantaloons and silk jerkin, golden arm circlets bound around his arms, his expression blasé. “Of far more concern, my bey, are the ninety-six Americans held captive at the Lake Fort in contradiction of your orders.”

  “Yes!” agreed the bey. “They must be released at once, lest the Americans revoke their favorable treaty. Tripoli is already at war with them out of sheer jealousy. War with the Americans now would weaken our position among the other provinces!”

  “The Americans are not your prisoners, Hammuda Bey,” said Naim. “They are the sultan’s. When my interrogations are complete, I will see your tribute recovered and delivered to you. The captives will go to the slave markets of Constantinople, never to be heard from again. The Americans will have no proof of a broken treaty. I will present the proceeds from the slaves as your gift to the sultan. He will be pleased, your city will be enriched, and most importantly, the Nizam-I Djedid and I will be gone.”

  Hammudda wagged his mouth as if to protest but then settled back on his couch. He kneaded his beard as he considered, plucking a grape off a platter of fruit. “When?”

  “A matter of days. Extend your hospitality a little longer, and when my work is concluded, Sultan Selim shall hear my deepest praise for you, Hammuda Bey. To prove my good faith, I have already returned your flagship. The Wolf of Tunis is once again docked in the Janissary harbor.”

  The bey motioned to Sapatapa, and the two whispered for a moment. They thought their conversation was private, but Naim had been reading lips longer than Sapatapa had been alive.

  “No word from the sultan?” complained Hammuda. “Impossible! There’s been more than enough time for a reply.”

  “Agreed, my love,” said Sapatapa. “The sultan is stalling to protect his most trusted agent, but his patience wears thin. The Chronicler is rumored to be here on his own business. I have sent a secret missive to the Grand Vizier.”

  The bey pretended an airy smile. “I should have the Janissaries cast this interloper into the gutter with the slave dung! I should have him stripped and caned in the street!”

  Sapatapa smirked at Naim in the pleasant manner of a diplomat, as if to beg his indulgence. He continued whispering to the bey.”We needn’t be rash. The years have taken their toll—the Chronicler is not the storied assassin of his youth. Naim’s mad quest has frittered away the sultan’s goodwill. Wait for the Grand Vizier’s reply. Indulge the Chronicler until the Ottoman Court disavows him. Then, put him down like a rabid dog.”

  The bey sighed as if carefully weighing the facts. “You are as brilliant as you are beautiful, my sweet. I shall send for you when this rat is out of my sight.” With that, the bey straightened his posture.

  Sapatapa returned to his post beside the throne and sniffed. “Of course, my bey. As you command.”

  “Very well.” Hammuda raised his chin with added pomp. “I consulted my foreign minister as to what resources my house might be able to spare in your noble service, Sidi Naim. He informs me our stores can more than accommodate you.”

  “That is most generous, Hammuda Bey,” said Naim. “A decision you will not regret.”

  “Sapatapa and I agree that it is an honor to have the Chronicler stay in our city. Since you have returned the Wolf of Tunis to the Janissaries, may I suggest Re’is Hamit remain your personal liaison, and that his ship, the Blooded Spear, stay under your personal command.”

  Naim swept out his arms and bowed. “I am not worthy of such generosity, my bey. You honor me.”

  “The honor is mine, of course,” Hammuda sniffed.

  Naim took a few formal steps back, then stood upright. The bey yawned. The foreign minister wore a pleasant smile. Naim strode out of the throne room and into the torchlit palace gardens. As he walked under whispering palm fronds, his mask crumbled like old papyrus.

  Their time would come.

  Chapter 23

  The Palace of the Ottoman Sultan

  Istanbul, Turkey

  Forty-Two Years Ago

  Rahmi Bostanci-basi tossed the severed head at the sultan’s feet. The tongue of the vizier of Kaffa waggled as his head rolled across the floor, the neck leaving red stamps on the marble. It came to a stop four paces from Sultan Mustafa III’s throne, and t
he barrel-chested ruler leaned forward. The vizier’s face was tilted toward the ceiling as if his forked eyes were studying the mosaics. A reserved, if intrigued smile played on the sultan’s lips.

  Sixteen-year-old Varlick Naim shifted nervously as he stood behind the royal assassin, whose title Bostanci-basi meant “head gardener.” It was, after all, Rahmi’s duty to shear away the “dead growth” of the sultan’s court.

  “I ask for the head of a governor,” Mustafa proclaimed, “and you bring me the head of a vizier. I ask my imperial assassin why the governor of Kaffa yet lives and his vizier does not.”

  A murmur of scandal passed among the assembled Divan. The dozens of ministers, advisors, and administrators in the throne room crowded closer to the gory display. The Court Calligrapher, Soysal Nisanci, stood closest to the sultan, who had been his longtime friend and pupil. Soysal fixed his bright eyes on Naim, his more recent pupil, and a smile parted his white beard.

  Rahmi Bostanci-basi, a short and muscular man out of place among the refined members of the court, scratched his bald head. “My sultan asked me to trim the head of a traitor. This is the yield of my crop. Vizier Arat was a spy working for the Cossacks. He misled the governor into paying tribute to the Russian infidels and kept a portion for himself. He is the reason the governor couldn’t pay the sultan’s taxes.”

  Another murmur from the Divan.

  “With the help of the nisanci’s pet,” said Rahmi, nodding at Naim, “I exposed the plot. Wise Sultan, Acemi Naim brings a chronicle from the governor pledging to pay taxes and send a levy of Janissary recruits to your court. The governor further throws himself on your mercy.”