And so it was that on the following morning a hunch, the back of a man’s head, the memory of Lisa DeVeer’s many charms, and two devious mathmagicians, had me toiling up through the streets of Port French nursing a hangover. I found myself drenched in sweat despite the cloud wrack burgeoning over the hills of Cag Liar. Storm coming. I didn’t need to be a sailor or a farmer to know that.
Yusuf had set me up for this. I knew it. From plotting out my route home to handing over those three little numbers that he must have known I would ask for. I resolved to settle my scores with Omar and his master in due course. For now I kept on walking, manfully resisting the various taverns opening onto the street, the rattle of gaming wheels from low garrets, and the calls of commercially-minded young women from arched windows.
I’d slept on the Santa Maria the previous night. My afternoon’s drinking had caught up with me and I’d settled on a big coil of rope by the forecastle steps just to rest my eyes. The next thing I knew seagulls were crapping on me and an unreasonably bright morning was in progress, with sailors shouting too loudly and the keenest salesmen already setting out their quayside stalls.
After forcing down a hearty breakfast I decided to do the honourable thing and see if I could find Lisa. I considered searching Rollas out—if it was Rollas—but at least I knew Lisa wouldn’t be wandering about. And besides, the chances were that Rollas had already asked enough questions to get himself knifed and dumped in the docks. Or knowing Rollas, to have knifed his attackers first and then had to flee.
Port French peters out into a scattering of merchants’ estates and vineyards as you climb up into the hills that step their way into the countryside. It’s pretty in its way, but I’d rather see it from the saddle. Or not at all. Especially not on foot, battered by a squally wind that couldn’t decide on a direction in which to blow. I narrowed my eyes against the grit and dust and followed the conflicting directions of several locals, plotting the average path. Soon I found myself lost, pursuing dry tracks that snaked their way between drier ridges. I passed one slack-jawed yokel who gave me another bunch of lies concerning the route to Thirteen, his dialect so thick as to be barely distinguishable from the grunting of his hogs. After that I met only goats, and once, a surprised donkey.
“Bollocks.”
I couldn’t see the sea any more, nor the town, just rolling brown hills, studded with thorn bushes and rocks. Apart from the goats, the odd lizard sunning itself, and a buzzard circling overhead, possibly waiting for me to die, I appeared to be utterly alone.
Then it began to rain.
An hour later, sodden, muddy from several falls, and having already abandoned my quest—my goal now being to find Port French again—I scrambled over a ridge and there, on the crest of the next rise, lay Thirteen.
The place had the look of an old fortress to it, a high-walled compound with observation towers at each corner, facing out over a slate-grey sea. From my elevation I could make out a range of buildings within the compound: barracks, stables, officers’ quarters—the only part of the edifice that looked vaguely hospitable—a well and three separate exercise yards. Formidable gates of iron-banded timber stood closed to the outside world. Guards manned the towers, alongside bell-bars waiting to be given their voice in case of alarm. Other guards ambled around the walls, some resting on the parapet to enjoy a pipe or watch the clouds. It seemed unreasonably well defended until you realized that the concern was not the slaves escaping but that they might be stolen. They were, after all, a valuable commodity and this was an island ruled by criminals.
I could see small groups of women in sackcloth being marched from one building to another. At this range I couldn’t make out the doors on the slave blocks, but no doubt they would be sturdy and well locked.
“Hmmm.” I wiped the wet hair from my eyes and contemplated the place. The rain had slackened off and lighter skies promised in the east.
I’ve never claimed to be a hero, but I knew that a woman I had briefly intended to marry could well be incarcerated, destined for a life of slavery, most likely as a concubine in some harem far to the south. I drew Loki’s key out from beneath my muddy robes. It glistened in the grey light. I could almost feel the thing laughing at me as I held it in my hand.
My gaze shifted from the consuming blackness of the key to the dark mass of the fortress they called Thirteen, glowering at me from the next ridge. Once before I’d stormed a stronghold to rescue a friend. The key twisted in my grip as if already imagining the locks that would surrender to it.
I didn’t want to do it. I wanted to get back on the Santa Maria and ride her all the way home. But I was a prince of Red March, and this was Lisa, Lisa DeVeer, my Lisa, damn it. I knew what I had to do.
“You bastard!”
“What?” I stepped back sharply out of the reach of her fists. “Camels?” Lisa shouted, and shuffled toward me, hampered by the rope still hobbling her legs. “You traded me for three camels? Three?”
“Well . . .” I hadn’t imagined this reaction when I took her slave-hood off. We were only a hundred yards from Thirteen’s doors. The men on the towers were watching and probably having a good laugh at my expense.
“They were good camels, Lisa!”
“Three!” She swung at me again and I jumped back. Overbalanced, she toppled, cursing, into the mud.
No probably about it. I could hear the tower guards laughing. “Lisa! Angel! I rescued you!” I thought it politic not to mention that it was actually just two camels. I traded the other one for five pieces of crown silver and a rather stylish leather jerkin with iron plates stitched to the chest and sides, nicely engraved. The factor had admitted after the deal that Lisa had been proving a pain to train in the duties of a harem girl and would likely have had to be whipped beyond the point of physical acceptability in the role. “I saved you!”
“My husband should have done that!” Her shriek managed to make my ears ring.
“I’m sure Barras is . . .” I bit the sentence off and decided not to make excuses for the treacherous bastard. “Well, he didn’t, did he? So you’re lucky I found you.” I drew my knife. “Now, if you’ll stop trying to hit me I’ll cut your legs free.”
Lisa dropped her arms and let me kneel to slice the rope. The moment the last fibres parted, she was off. Charging straight back at the doors, screaming bloody threats and dire promises, both hands raised in obscene gestures. Fortunately the circulation hadn’t fully returned to her legs and I caught her before she got a third of the way back, wrapping my arms about her from behind and spinning her around bodily. “Christsakes, woman! They’ll take you right back off me and tear up the bill of sale. These are not nice men. Your mouth’s going to get your nose cut off and find you doing tricks in a dark-house just to eat!” I was as worried for me as for her. We were a long way from town, and these were the Corsair Isles: they could do pretty much anything and get away with it. I started to drag her away. It was actually slightly easier than dragging my three camels all the way up from the quayside. I got her back to where we started before she got her arm free and slapped me.
“Ow! Jesus!” I clutched my face. “What was that for?”
“They said you died!” Angry, as if it were my fault.
“They said you got married!” My turn to feel angry, and for more than being slapped, though I wasn’t sure why. The ingratitude of it probably.