A Distant Magic (8 page)

Chapter
TEN

W
ho the devil? Nikolai's crew contained no one like the boy who had thrown the knife. Might the child have crossed over from the corsair?

Then the small figure turned and vanished, and Nikolai realized that was no boy.
"Tano, take charge here!"

The death of the corsair captain had ended the battle. Moulay Reis was an old enemy of Nikolai's, and he had wanted to take the man's life himself. Of course, their fight had almost gone the other way. Leave it to Moulay to cheat with a pistol.

But why had the little witch saved him? Assuming the scruffy little urchin who had hurled that knife was her. The idea was incredible, but he'd seen her face, and the outlines of a slight but distinctly female form under her shapeless sailor's garments.

Nikolai leaped back aboard his ship to find the Scottish witch. He found her at the dinghy, slashing at the lines that secured it to the deck. A thick red braid fell over her shoulder, and her small white hands wielded a corsair blade with unnerving expertise.

"Don't waste your strength," he barked. "You're not leaving
this ship."

She pivoted, sword in hand. It was a lovely
nimcha,
one he wouldn't mind owning. She hissed,
"Don't come near me!"

He paused out of her reach, realizing that he was disinclined to move closer. She was using some kind of magical shield. He could overcome it, but he would have to use his own magic to do so.

Reluctantly amused by the blazing red-haired hellion who confronted him with lethal menace, he asked,
"Where is that well-bred young lady I kidnapped in Marseilles?"

"She existed mostly in your mind." Her crisp voice was as different as her demeanor and her garb.
"I'm no meek English virgin, Captain. I rode to battle against the king's army in the Rising of Forty-five. When my lover died, I led our men myself. After Culloden, I guided them home safely across country filled with pillaging English soldiers. You underestimated me, as most men do." Her eyes narrowed.
"I could have killed you. Instead, I saved your life. Surely that is worth my
freedom."

"Why should I be fair when I hold all the power?" Thinking she was unlikely to attack him, he concentrated his power and reached out slowly to take the sword.

She sliced the blade across his wrist with just enough pressure to draw blood, then danced back a step.
"Not all the power. There's a good chance that I can kill you before any of your men observe this little scene." She showed her teeth.
"We shall learn if your power of attack is greater than my ability to shield."

"I doubt you have enough power to fight off me and my whole crew!"

"It would be interesting to find out." She lowered the point of her sword.
"Promise me my life and freedom, and in return I shall spare your life and not
send any Guardian enforcers after you."

"I have no intention of killing you, but your freedom is another matter." He muttered an oath as he wiped blood from his wrist. The wound wasn't dangerous, but it stung like Hades.
"What makes you think I would keep a promise made under duress?"

She laughed wickedly. "Because you are a man of principles, even
though you are a kidnapping, bloodthirsty pirate."

He swore again. This woman could read him like no one he'd ever known. Except, perhaps, his grandmother.
"You have little bargaining power. Kill me and my men will kill you."

"A man who seeks vengeance with such passion surely has a sense of justice," she said flatly.
"Do you owe me nothing for saving your life?"

He frowned, hating the fact that she was right. Moulay Reis had guessed that threatening a helpless slave would enrage Nikolai to the point where he would cast caution to the winds.
"I might have avoided Moulay Reis's musket ball, for I have survived many
battles such as this. But it's possible that he would have killed me, so I do
owe you something. Not your freedom, though. My life is too paltry a price for
that."

Her mouth tightened. "At the least, you should release me from
that cabin before I go mad with boredom."

So the Scottish witch was impatient. With that red hair, he wasn't surprised.
"If you give me your word that you will not injure anyone, you may have the key
to your cabin and the freedom of the ship."

"You aren't asking me to promise not to escape?"

"The ship will not call anywhere that will offer you freedom," he said bluntly.

"Very well," she said, after considering. "But if saving your life
is worth so little, what would it take to win my freedom?"

He guessed that the question was rhetorical, but he chose to answer it.
"Saving the entire ship and crew would do, I believe. Now give me that sword."

She refused to hand it over, though he felt her relax her protective shield.
"Only if I get my own knife back. It was made for my hand."

"Very well. Come and take it from Moulay Reis's throat."

He was deliberately harsh in his words, but she didn't blink. As she started across the deck, she said,
"You knew the captain of the other ship?"

"Oh, yes," he said softly. "I knew him well."

She slanted a glance upward. "Sorry to have denied you the pleasure of killing him," she said with uncomfortable perception.
"Who was the attacker in this battle?"

"He was. Exactly what I had wished for." They reached the railing. Though the two ships lay side by side, hulls grinding, it still took great care to jump to the deck of the galley. He timed the rise and fall of the ships before leaping down.

He turned and saw Jean hesitating as she studied the shifting gap between the ships. For a petite woman, the risk was greater. He extended his hand to her.
"Come."

"No need." Her muscles tensed as she prepared to jump.

He said impatiently, "If you slip and fall, you'll be ground to
pieces between the hulls. Take my hand."

Reluctantly she obeyed. When their hands clasped, there was a snap of energy, and he realized that the current between them ran both ways. She was much less cool than she appeared. Though she had experienced battle, she was no hardened warrior. Her determination to look fierce was curiously endearing.

She leaped down to the deck of the galley and almost fell when the ship pitched. His grip held her steady until she regained her balance.

"Thank you." She yanked her hand away. He stepped back, unnerved by their interaction. Maybe he should free her for his own peace of mind. Either that or feed her to the sharks. Though the sharks might not thank him for such a sharp-edged morsel.

Nikolai's experienced crew was already cleaning up the debris of battle. The dead were stacked to one side. Most were Muslim, and they would have the rites of their religion said before being consigned to the sea. The captives were huddled under guard in the stern of the ship. Their unhappy expressions suggested that they had heard of Nikolai and the
Justice.

The banging of hammer and chisel on iron marked the blows of the ship's blacksmith as he struck the irons from the galley slaves. Other crewmen distributed modest portions of bread, cheese, and ale. The freed slaves fell on the food ravenously. Rowers were seldom fed more than the bare essentials necessary to keep them working. Later they would be given better food, but Nikolai knew from experience that feeding them too much now would make them ill.

Most of the rowers were European, though a few Africans were scattered in. One of the first freed rose shakily from his bench and stretched to his full height, extending his arms as he embraced the ability to move freely. He wore only a loincloth and his sunburned skin covered hard, ropy muscles. His face was luminescent with joy.
"God bless you, Captain," he said in French. "What will you do with us?"

"Sell them for a good profit," Jean muttered under her breath.
"The poor devils."

Nikolai's eyes narrowed. "Watch and learn." He took the sword from her.
"But first, retrieve your knife."

Feeling that she had fallen into another world, Jean picked her way between the rowers to the crumpled body of Moulay Reis. Some of the freed slaves openly gaped when they realized she was a woman, but they said nothing. Food and freedom were more important now.

The splendid red-and-gold brocade robe the
reis
wore was saturated with blood, and Jean's knife still rested in his slashed throat. His dark eyes stared sightlessly at his killer when Jean bent over to retrieve the weapon. Forcing herself to be impassive, she pulled out the dagger and wiped the blood off on the robe's ermine trim.

She stood and turned back, wanting to escape this charnel house. The small, quiet cabin that had been her prison was appealing now that she wouldn't be locked in.

As she made her way along the aisle between the rowing stations, another freed slave called to Gregorio, his face desperate with hope,
"Will you take us home?" He spoke French, but his accent was Italian, Jean thought.

Though she had been ready to retreat to her cabin, now curiosity held her. She took a spot on the railing below the
Justice
so she could retreat quickly if necessary, then turned to watch how the captain would handle the situation.

Gregorio moved to the end of the rowing area and raised his arms commandingly, Jean's sword in his hand. Using French, the most widely spoken language in Europe, he said,
"We will deliver you to the Mediterranean port that is convenient for the greatest number of you. Those still far from home will receive funds to travel the rest of the way." His gaze swept the bony, wild-eyed men before him. A few were translating quietly to comrades who didn't understand French.

It was shocking to look at Gregorio and realize that he had been a galley slave just like these men. Shocking, and disturbing to think of him chained and naked, only a loincloth on his gaunt, sunburned body.

A grizzled man stared at his scarred wrists, deeply grooved by years of manacles.
"What about those of us who have no home?" he said in a hoarse voice.

He might not have expected an answer, but Gregorio said, "There is
an alternative. I can take you to the island of Santola. It is inhabited almost
entirely by freed slaves, both men and women. All are welcome on Santola no
matter what your past. In return for a home, you must accept others as they
accept you. You must also work, but as free men, not slaves. You may stay as
long as you wish. If you ever decide to leave, you will have passage to the
mainland on the next available ship."

His words produced a rustle of interest among the galley slaves, with the word Santola being repeated in hushed voices. Jean studied the men's faces and auras and had the sense that a fair number of them, perhaps a third, were excited by the idea of a new home where the shame of slavery wouldn't matter. But where was Santola? She had never heard of it.

One of the slaves rose and stalked toward the sullen group of prisoners. His back was a hideous snarl of scars.
"You speak of life. Now that I am free, I am interested only in death.
His
death!"

Eyes wild, he lunged at the most richly dressed of the captives, locking his hands around the man's throat and wrestling him to the deck. The guards pried the galley slave off the struggling corsair.

"Contain yourself. I assure you that justice will be done." Gregorio's gaze passed over the freed slaves, touching each man.
"You who were their victims will choose which among the corsairs were truly evil, which merely did as they were told, and if some few might have been merciful." He pointed at that man who had been attacked.
"We begin with him."

"Hassan was the slave overseer," a man growled. "He enjoyed the
lash."

"He killed that Greek boy for no reason," another snarled.

"Give him to us for punishment!"

Voice calming, Gregorio asked, "Can anyone speak any good of
Hassan?"

There was muttering, but no one volunteered a reply. Gregorio gestured with the sword, and his men took the overseer to a spot by the far railing.
"Now, what about this one?" He pointed the sword at another corsair, a thin man with haunted eyes.

One of the
Justice
sailors pulled the man forward to be judged. At first there was silence. Then one of the rowers said reluctantly,
"Nazeer used to give me extra water when Hassan wasn't looking."

Several of the others nodded. Another said, "Once Hassan told him
to whip me, but Nazeer didn't hit very hard."

"He didn't enjoy hurting us," another agreed. "Once I
collapsed and Hassan would have thrown me over the side, but Nazeer said I still
had some good years in me. He gave me bread and a piece of his own fish and
allowed me time to recover."

"So he is not evil." Gregorio gestured toward a different spot by the railing and Nazeer was taken there under guard.

Jean watched in fascination while each corsair was presented to the freed slaves. Some of the rowers wanted as much blood as possible, but Gregorio kept asking questions until there was general agreement about the behavior of each of the surviving corsairs. A handful joined Nazeer as men who had showed kindness when possible. A larger number were judged as neutral—not kind but not cruel, either.

The remaining corsairs, about a third of the captives, stood accused of violence and brutality. In all cases, there were multiple claims of vicious behavior and no redeeming acts. Those slaves who survived spoke for the dead who had been victims.

When the last corsair had been judged, Gregorio said to the captives,
"You who have been judged decent will be returned to a Barbary port. I would suggest you consider another line of work. If I find you on another slave ship, I shall not be so merciful. As for the rest…" His remorseless gaze moved to the corsairs who had been judged vicious.
"Give them to the freed slaves, one at a time."

Hassan, the overseer, was shoved down the aisle that ran between the rowing stations. He screamed and tried to run away, but within seconds he disappeared under a mass of howling, furious slaves.

His screaming stopped abruptly.

Stomach roiling, Jean spun around and scrambled up onto the
Justice,
not caring about the risk of falling between the ships. She was at the ladder that descended to the cabins when Gregorio caught up with her.