The Necromancer's Grimoire (11 page)

The blue sky beckoned above her, calling for her to fly and to see the beautiful blues and greens of the sea and the white cliffs of the islands. The fresh breeze drew her away from the land and across the water to the leaping dolphins and shimmering schools of silver tuna and mackerel that swam just under the surface of the White Sea. The sun shone brightly on the frescos and columns of the ancient libraries and academies of learning on the shores. Then she heard a piercing scream. Her garden, the glistening waves and the stately buildings disappeared in a blinding light. With a startling crash of thunder she was slammed hard into Montrose's arms; her eyes flew open in horror.

The men around her leaped to their feet at the sight of her face, and Montrose tightened his grip on her.

“What?” Corbett bent over her, alarm on his face. “What did you see?”

How could she tell them what she saw in the flash of light that appeared the instant before the thunder? How could she describe the images of the lives of all men and women, the sounds of war, the gurgle of pestilence, the sharp stab of famine, the burning scourge of cruelty, the twisting agony of torture, and the crushing fears that permeate the existence of humankind in an infinite wave of misery for all eternity? How could she tell them she had seen a glimpse of hell?

The men were staring at her intently.

“I saw,” she whispered, “I saw what Eve saw when she bit into the fruit. I saw the wonders of heaven…and the horrors of hell.” She turned her head toward Corbett. “We will not be able to raise anyone without the necromancer's grimoire.”

The men rode silently, each caught up in his own thoughts. Nadira swayed side to side in rhythm with Montrose's horse. She sat behind him, leaning forward against his back, arms around his waist. The road wound up and down and around the spring green of the hills, but always eventually downward toward the sea. Naples was visible miles ahead as a shining scar of closely-packed white houses and buildings that seemed to cling to the hills below Vesuvius to keep from sliding into the harbor. The weather was pleasant enough, there was no rain or wind, but the storm of the approaching French army had tempered their conversation and wound it down to nothing after the sun reached its zenith. The roads were choked with Napoli citizens fleeing the approach of King Charles.

The traffic was a minor inconvenience at first, but when they were less than a day's ride from the great city, they found they could no longer easily travel against the tide of people and wagons moving in the opposite direction.

Corbett had them move off the road for a conference. “I did not anticipate this complication. If there is to be a battle here, our ship may not be in port.”

Calvin agreed. “We could get to Napoli and find the harbor empty.”

DiMarco spoke up. “Send the girl to see.”

Montrose reached behind his leg and squeezed hers. “Would you?” He asked.

Calvin twisted in his saddle. “DiMarco, which elixir should she use?” He had his hand on the satchel that contained the tiny glass vials.

DiMarco cued his horse closer, and met Nadira's eyes. He studied her face for a moment before replying. “She doesn't need an elixir for something so simple.”

She turned her face away from him and lay her cheek against Montrose's back. It was true. She didn't need an elixir. She closed her eyes and imagined the harbor at Napoli. Ships left at every low tide, filled with those who could afford the price of safety. She felt the misery of those who left valuable property behind, but valued
their lives all the more.

She opened her eyes and turned her head, looking for Corbett. “I do not know which ship is for us. How can I find it?”

Corbett stared hard at her, then turned to eye Calvin's satchel. “She cannot tell us everything. If I could go, I would know how to find our ship. I have met with the men involved, spoken to them.”

“No.” Calvin covered the satchel with his gloved hand. “You will not touch them. I will not have you touched with madness.” He and Corbett stared at each other until Corbett broke away, resigned.

“You cannot give her the name of the ship?” Montrose asked.

“No. I sent Reginald who contacted a merchant who hired the captain.”

“Give her that man's name. See if she can find him.” He turned his head. “Can you find a man with only his name as a guide?”

“I will try.”

Corbett said, “He is Leonardo Marcoli.”

Nadira spoke the name to herself over and over while holding the image of the Napoli harbor in her mind. At first there was nothing, no movement, no images. Then three men appeared before her, all in fine clothes. A young man, an old one, and another in his middle years with his son at his side. All Leonardo Marcoli.

She touched each man. The old one had a ship. Yes. She asked to see it. It was being loaded with barrels and jars, but human transport had become more lucrative. The captain considered raising his prices, unloading the cargo and replacing it with people.

She opened her eyes. “They load the ship as we speak. We must hurry, for he is offered double to fill his ship with refugees instead of oil and wine.”

Corbett spurred his horse in answer. They followed without another word, riding against the flow of carts and donkeys, pushing downhill to the sea.

At the harbor the horses were traded for passage, Corbett's purse became much lighter and Nadira was handed up the gangplank to settle in among the secured crates and barrels on the deck of a wide-bottomed balinger fitted for cargo. William planted himself beside her as the men moved about the ship.

“I have not been on a ship since I left home as a boy,” he told her.

“No?” She was busy watching the sailors prepare the ship to debark. “I did not sail, but have spent many hours in the holds among the goods, taking inventory.” She looked about her with a practiced eye. “This ship will be overloaded and will not sail well against the wind.”

“Will it sink?” His voice had an edge to it.

She laughed. “No. I would hope I would feel that fate through my feet as I stepped on board. I would fail as a seer if I could not tell.”

“Right.” William relaxed. “I feel better, then.”

But something else tugged at her. Sails. She looked up at the sails, secured now while in harbor. Something about sails.

The trouble with sails became clear on the fifth day at sea. In fact, there were sails everywhere, traveling in every direction on the busy waters, but these sails were different. The uncomfortable feeling on the back of her neck intensified when she looked at those sails, but not at the others.

Still, she said nothing, for the captain was a grizzled old man, surely experienced in these waters. She watched him carefully to see if he noticed these particular sails. He did. He continually scanned the horizon from his place in the bow of the balinger, but his gaze rested a few seconds longer on these sails than the others. His crew appeared more alert now that these sails moved into position behind them.

She glanced at her own men. Alisdair and Garreth were in various stages of discomfort, lounging or bent over the rails. Calvin and DiMarco were busy at dice. Corbett stood near the captain. She caught Montrose staring at the waves behind them, his blue eyes like the water. She moved closer to him.

“I do not like those sails,” she said simply, indicating the white billows with a finger.

“Hmm.” The blue eyes turned from the horizon to focus on her. “Then we shall tell the captain.”

Nadira stayed seated. She watched as Montrose moved across the deck, hands clutching lanyards and belaying pins as the deck swayed on the waves. She saw him speak into the captain's ear, saw Corbett turn to look behind them. The older man nodded once. Montrose made his way back.

“He is watching.” He settled his long limbs beside her on the planking. “There is nowhere to flee on a ship, little one. We will have to wait and see.”

The feeling on the back of her neck increased as the distance between the ships decreased. What is the point of being warned of danger if there is no escape? She tapped her lower lip with a finger. Why not be warned not to get on this ship in the first place? That would have made more sense. She glanced around at the crew. All were on full alert. The captain called out orders to them. Men leaped for the rigging and pulled hard on the sheets. The boat surged, catching the wind at a better angle for speed as the breeze took them.

Montrose leaned against a gunwale, his face grim. “The captain agrees there is danger if he changes course when we do,” he said nodding toward the following ship. He rubbed the joint of his right thumb as she often saw him do before he handled his sword. Alisdair picked his way toward them among the crates and bundles tied to the deck. William appeared silently at her elbow, his soft golden eyes met hers and she saw they were worried.

“The captain has ordered a change in course,” William said, though it sounded more like a question.

“Nadira thinks this ship,” Montrose nodded aft, “is not merely sharing the waves with us.”

“Aye.” Alisdair gave the ship a long look. “I am not as good in a sea fight,” he murmured. “Bad footing.”

“Aye,” Montrose agreed.

Nadira still puzzled over her discomfort.
What good is the power of knowing if it comes too late?
She shifted on the hard planking and rubbed her forehead as if she could force the answer to come out of it. No answer came, though she was comforted by the fact that she was not feeling the kind of fear or anxiety that usually heralded a disaster.

That's it. I could be wrong. I could be imagining that we are in danger.
Or…she looked up. The ship behind them was much closer now. There could be no doubt it was chasing them, for it had matched their change in course almost immediately. The same wind fills all sails, she thought, yet this boat bears down upon us like a cat upon a mouse.
This boat is necessary to the mission
.

She leaned closer to Montrose. “They will board us,” she whispered. “We may think we have lost.” She glanced up at the others but felt no pain or fear.
Good.
We will not be harmed.
Montrose's blue eyes were fixed hard on her now. She continued, “We will not be harmed in the end, and this following boat and her crew are important. We cannot continue without them.”

“You are saying this encounter is fated?”

“No. There is no fate as you think of it.” Nadira struggled to make him understand. “But when we made the decision to travel to Constantinople…”

“Istanbul.”

“…Istanbul, we set a series of events in motion that guide and shape our plans. This is one of them. It cannot be escaped, but must be lived through to serve our purpose.”

“This sounds like fate.”

She smiled. “A fate we choose…therefore not Fate.”

He did not return her smile, but stood so he could see into the distance behind them. “Not long.”

Alisdair turned his head as the captain shouted out more orders and sailors danced about to follow them. “I think they recognize this ship.” William leaned over the rail to get a better look.

Montrose extended a hand to her and she took it. With his eyes still on the approaching ship he said, “I want you to go below.” The other passengers disappeared through the center hatch.

“Oh.” Nadira thought about the stinking hold. It was a shameful mess that her old master would not have permitted on his ships. She remembered that while his holds were dark and dank with leaking seawater, they were clean and the bilges were constantly bailed. This captain allowed all wastes to find the bottom of his ship. Planking did little to separate the sloshing filth from the cargo and the passengers. She put her hand to her nose. “No. Don't make me go down there.”

“It will not be safe up here.”

“It is not safer down there.” She saw his face twist with reluctant agreement and he said no more, though his eyes counted the archers now visible in a line along the gunwales of the other ship. She counted the masts. Galley. A small one, perhaps captured from the Portuguese. It flew a Turkish banner, but the design was not the low sleek fusta that often harried her old master's ships.

She put both hands on the rail and allowed the fresh breeze to blow the memory of the hold from her nostrils. “They will not shoot,” she whispered. He turned his head to face her, incredulous. She insisted. “Do you still not trust me?”

“The wee lass has no fear, Rob,” Alisdair said.

Nadira could see the mental struggle on his face. What he had learned in the last few months contradicted so much of his practical experience. She was asking him to deny his senses. He grit his teeth. “Very well.” He took her arm and pulled her to his body, caressing the small of her back and tugging gently at the ends of her short braid. “But promise me you will place yourself behind the crates and below the gunwales.”

She nodded consent just before the captain's voice took on a more urgent tone. All the men turned to face him. He gave his orders now from the stern, near the helmsman. Montrose bent to kiss her lightly on the lips before pushing her toward the jumble of crates and amphorae lashed to the deck near the mast. William followed silently.

She reached for the mast, for there were ropes and pulleys and rings enough to hold tightly. She could keep herself upright on the surging deck, and out of the way of the sailors who were climbing and crawling about the ship. William followed her lead, holding an iron ring on the other side of the mast. The enemy ship moved alongside, close enough for her to make out the faces of the turbaned men at the rails, ready to leap.

That is when she saw that the enemy had small brass cannons mounted near the bow. She glanced at the captain to confirm that he had seen them. He had. She held tighter as the boat spun on its keel and the sails snapped in the wind over her head. The captain had called for another change in direction, swinging the stern to face the other ship. Still, the men on the enemy ship followed the maneuver with their own sails and oars, bringing the mouth of those cannons to bear on them amidships. Now the solid safety of the main mast was no longer a comfort. Nadira knew a cannon could shoot chained balls to take down a ship's mast and rigging. She was clutching the prime target.

Nadira closed her eyes and focused, clearing her ears of the sound of shouting and the splashing of the waves. She imagined the bolts of the crossbows flying like a flock of birds, ripping through sails and sailors alike. She tried to imagine the cannon's thunder and the splintering of the deck by iron balls and of the tall rigging tipping into the waves. She imagined herself sinking into the cold sea, buffeted by the flotsam and jetsam of the shattered hull and its cargo. Try as she might, she could not bring these images of destruction to mind. She opened her eyes. Her imagined sea battle would not materialize. Below her feet she could feel the hull pivot as the rudders were dug into the waves, again turning the ship away from the cannons.

The captain called out again and the ship rolled on its side as the men hauled on the sails, their sweating backs bent to the lines. She pressed herself harder against the mast. She held to the halyards with both hands and turned her head as the two ships sped past each other in opposite directions, the enemy coming around to skillfully reposition the cannons. The captain shouted again.