Nicholas said, “I think he will. The danger of Freeport has been shown too clearly in the last few weeks. It’s worth some lost revenue to keep things quiet out there. If Kesh can let the captains of Durbin come and go as they please, why not the Kingdom and Freeport?”
“Why not?” agreed Amos.
Swallow said, “Can you get the King to agree, Amos?”
“Probably not, William. But his nephew probably can,” he answered, placing his hand on Nicholas’s shoulder.
“Nephew?” said Scarlet.
Amos said, “This stays within this room, by your oath, and you’ll decide how to tell the populace what’s been agreed to here. But this boy is Nicholas, son of the Prince of Krondor, and cousin to Margaret, the girl who was taken.”
Marcus said, “And I’m her brother, Marcus. My father is the Duke of Crydee.” Thinking of his father caused Marcus’s eyes to narrow slightly, but he remained otherwise calm.
Swallow said, “Do we have any choice?”
“You’re not entitled to any,” admitted Amos, “but we’ll give you one anyway. You’ve a year to ponder things.”
Nicholas said, “Give me paper and quill and I’ll pen a note to my father or whoever sails this way next spring against our not returning. By this time next year, you’ll have had to decide, one way or the other.”
Swallow agreed.
Nicholas said, “Patrick?”
The Sheriff said, “Ah…Highness?”
Nicholas said, “Things will remain as they have been, but should the captains convince the citizens to agree to our terms at any time in the next year, you will act as the King’s High Sheriff of Freeport. If you’re agreed?”
Patrick nodded and stepped back.
Nicholas said, “You five captains will be given letters of marque, as the King’s western squadron of the Krondorian fleet. It will look more convincing when my father shows up here next spring if you’re flying Kingdom colors from your mastheads. You can decide who ranks among you.”
Amos turned to Render. “Now you’re going to tell us what we need to know, you murderous cur. The only question is, do we get the information the easy way or the hard way?”
—
RENDER SPAT AT Amos. “I demand my rights as a captain under the covenant! We’re not part of the bloody Kingdom yet, Trenchard! You’ve no writ over me, and I can demand personal justice.”
Amos faced the other captains. “Are you going to—”
Swallow interrupted. “We must, Amos. We dare not break the covenant until the people have accepted the King’s laws. To do otherwise…”
“You said we could question Render in exchange for the Kingdom’s keeping hands off!” bellowed Amos.
“We gave blood oath to the Captains’ Covenant!” Morgan shouted in return, as the others voiced loud agreement. “If we have any claim to honor this side of hell, it’s our oath!”
William Swallow said, “You were of the Brotherhood long enough to know that, Amos. Killer, thief, or blasphemer, we’ll make you one of us, but be named oath breaker, and no man will sail with you again.”
Looking at the prisoner, Morgan said, “I’d gladly hand this traitor’s heart to you myself, Trenchard, but our word is our bond. If we break it, we’re no better than he is.”
Amos nodded. “Very well, Render,” he said, removing his hat and jacket, “if you wish captain’s privilege…”
“No!” said Render. “Not you, Trenchard. Him!” He pointed at Nicholas.
Swallow said, “It was the lad who was his accuser, and the covenant forbids captains from fighting one another.”
Nicholas said, “What is this?”
Amos stepped close and said, “As a captain, Render has the right to defend himself by personal combat. You’re the one who must kill him.”
Nicholas looked startled and whispered, “I’ve never killed anyone, Amos.”
Glancing at Render, who had removed his jacket and shirt, revealing the purple tattoos all over his chest and back, Amos said, “Well, I can’t imagine anyone you’d have to work less hard to hate, boy. That’s the man who was responsible for your aunt Briana’s murder and who kidnapped your cousin and that little girl you’re so fond of.”
Nicholas’s expression showed he was unconvinced. “I don’t know if I can…just kill him.”
Amos said, “You’re not going to be given a choice, son. If you refuse, he walks away a free man.”
“They can’t—”
“They can and they will. This is not the Kingdom, and your rank means nothing.” Lowering his voice and putting his hands on Nicholas’s shoulders, he said, “Now, he’s certainly going to try to kill you if you give him the chance, so don’t. If he wins, he walks out of here with the right of passage and no pursuit. That’s captains’ law. So you must kill him.”
“What about the girls? We won’t know—”
Amos said, “These lads”—he indicated the captains—“are less concerned with the prisoners than they are with their own necks. Give them half a chance to reconsider, and they may decide holding you hostage against your father showing up with my fleet isn’t such a poor notion after all. Worry about getting information after you’ve managed to stay alive, Nicholas.” There was genuine concern in his voice and expression. “Now you must do this thing.”
Nicholas nodded, removing his baldric and coat. The common room was quickly stripped of tables and chairs. Captain Scarlet drew a large circle on the floor in chalk. Swallow positioned a man with a crossbow on the stairs and said, “It’s simple justice. Both of you walk into the circle; one walks out. If a man tries to flee the circle, he’ll be judged guilty and shot.”
The two combatants stepped into the circle, barely more than twenty feet across. Harry whispered to Nicholas, “It’s just like the fencing corridor at the palace. Keep your mind on the blade.”
Nicholas nodded. Part of their training had been to duel along a narrow hall, where one could neither advance quickly nor move too far to one side or another without risking injury. Footwork would play little part in this duel; bladework, everything.
Render took a heavy saber and held it upright, then cocked it back behind his head. Nicholas extended his own saber, knowing that his opponent could bring the blade slashing around instantly either to block an attack or to remove his head. Swallow said, “May Banath, god of thieves and pirates, give strength to him who is in the right in the cause.”
Nicholas stood ready, when suddenly he felt a stabbing pain in his left foot. Then Render’s sword was hissing through the air and Nicholas barely had time to bring his own blade up to block. He took the blow and felt the shock all the way up his arm. That was when Nicholas knew that this was no drill at home, nor practice with a civilized opponent; this was someone trying to kill him.
Fear exploded in Nicholas’s heart, a clutching deep dread and near panic, but hours of training each day over years saved him. Reflexes worked where his mind wouldn’t, and he successfully blocked each blow. In less than a minute, Render had launched no fewer than ten attacks, each countered by the Prince. His foot stabbed him each time he put weight on it, and each stab hurt worse than the one before.
Nicholas found his own perspiration sour in his nose, as terror drove him to survive. But still he had not ventured any counterattack of his own. Harry called encouragement, but the others were chillingly silent.
On and on Render pressed forward, and each time Nicholas met him with a stout defense. His foot hurt enough that he wished to scream, to fall to the floor and roll up in a ball, holding it until the fire and throbbing stopped, but to do so was to die.
Render slashed at Nicholas, and he forced himself to block and return a strike, which sent the tattooed sea captain stumbling back at the unexpected response. Nicholas didn’t follow through, as pain stabbed up his leg, causing his left knee to tremble.
Nicholas stepped back, looking Render in the eyes, and he forced himself to breathe slowly. “It’s going to hurt,” he warned h
imself softly, “but you’ll live. It’s only pain, and you can ignore pain.”
Render advanced, wary now that he’d seen the young man’s speed. Nicholas waited, without moving, his eyes following the captain as he advanced. Nicholas maintained a balanced stance, weight evenly distributed on both feet, though his left burned in agony. Then Render was moving, a combination of blows, high, low, and high again, forcing the younger man to move back in lock step with him. Nicholas took each blow and focused all his concentration on the other man’s sword. The stink of fear in his nose, the pain in his foot, the surroundings—all of it was put aside as he lost himself in the rhythm of the attack.
Then Render overextended his high attack and Nicholas snapped a blow that caught the pirate upon the shoulder, cutting him deeply. Blood flowed over the purple tattoos and white skin, but Render barely acknowledged the injury.
Nicholas stepped forward and then back. As he moved away from Render, he lost his concentration, and suddenly pain shot upward from his foot, causing him to gasp. He wavered and Render pressed the attack, sensing the younger man was somehow distracted.
A slashing cut to the neck was barely blocked and Nicholas received a terrible glancing blow to the elbow. Almost blind from the pain, he countered and found his blade slamming into Render’s ribs. The other man gasped in pain and pulled back, and Nicholas felt his own fingers starting to go numb. He transferred his saber to his left hand, and blinked to clear his vision.
Render stood gripping his ribs, and suddenly Nicholas could hear Amos’s voice shouting, “He’s open, lad! Kill him!”
Nicholas held the blade awkwardly in his left hand, and Render’s vision seemed to clear. Despite the blood running down from his shoulder and from the wound in his side, he smiled. Nicholas tried to advance and again pain stabbed his left foot, which was now the lead. He retreated and Render leaped.
Nicholas braced for the attack, swept Render’s blade to the side, and riposted, the point of his weapon taking the tattooed man in the pit of the stomach. Render’s eyes widened in disbelief as blood came gushing from his mouth and nose.
For a moment his eyes looked into Nicholas’s, and instead of hatred or fear, there was a questioning look, as if he was asking the Prince, “Why?” Then he collapsed.
The men gathered around Nicholas and Amos said, “What happened to you?”
Nicholas took a long moment to understand the question and his leg began to tremble. Suddenly it collapsed beneath him, and as he fell, Harry and Marcus grabbed him. Softly he said, “My foot…”
He was carried to a nearby chair and sat down. He let Harry pull his left boot off, and when he saw his foot, he winced. It was discolored, purple and black. “Gods,” said Harry. “It looks like a horse stepped on it.”
“What’s wrong?” asked Amos.
Nakor shook his head and said nothing.
After a moment the pain faded, and, before their eyes, the discoloration began to fade as well.
Nicholas’s vision cleared and at last he said, “What did you say, Amos?”
“I said, what’s wrong?”
Nicholas said, “Oh, my arm?” He looked at his arm and saw no blood. Pulling up the sleeve, he saw an angry red welt on the elbow, quickly darkening, but no sign of a cut or break.
Harry said, “I’ve seen you practice for hours left-handed; why did you have so much trouble?”
Nicholas said, “I don’t know. My foot…”
Amos and the others from Crydee looked down and saw nothing wrong with either of Nicholas’s feet. “It’s changed!” exclaimed Ghuda.
Nicholas shook his head. His foot now looked normal. “It hurt. A sharp pain when I stepped on it. It got worse as the fight wore on.”
“Does it hurt now?” asked Nakor.
Nicholas stepped upon it and said, “Only a little….It’s stopped hurting.”
Nakor nodded again but didn’t say anything.
Amos turned to the other captains and said, “Well, there’s your justice for you.” To Marcus and Harry he said, “Take some of our boys and accompany the Sheriff,” and to Patrick, “If you don’t mind?”
“I don’t,” said Patrick.
Amos said to Marcus, “After you’ve rounded up Render’s crew, tell them that I’ll buy the freedom of any man who can tell us who took the girls from that island and where they were bound. Question them one at a time, because every one of those motherless dogs will lie to you.”
Marcus nodded and he and Harry left.
Amos turned to find Nicholas staring down at the lifeless body of Render. The boy’s face was ashen and he looked as if he might be sick. Clapping his hand upon Nicholas’s shoulder, Amos said, “Don’t worry, son. You’ll get used to it.”
Nicholas’s eyes began to tear and he said, “I hope not.” Ignoring the stares of those around him, he picked up his jacket and slowly walked to the stairs and up them, toward his room.
—
NICHOLAS SLEPT LATE the next day. The capture of Render’s crew had proved easier than expected. All of the men were aboard his ship, Lady of Darkness, waiting for orders to row over to the Raptor and take her. A few threats from the surrounding dozen longboats, and the promise to burn the boat to the water line if they didn’t give up their arms, was all it took. Amos had observed they were a less resolute lot than Kingdom sailors, because they sailed for booty. But it had been only five hours to dawn when they were done, and Nicholas was exhausted from the duel and the capture.
The sound of footsteps hurrying up the stairs greeted him as he opened the door. Harry stood at the top of the stairs, breathless.
“What is it?” Nicholas asked his friend.
“You’d better come.” He hurried back down the stairs and Nicholas followed.
Down in the large private room Amos was using as headquarters, they found him in conference with William Swallow and Patrick Duncastle.
Amos looked up and said, “They’re dead.”
“Who?” asked Nicholas, fearful he was about to hear Margaret’s and Abigail’s names.
“Render’s crew. They’re all dead.”
Nicholas’s eyes narrowed as he attempted to take in the news. “All of them?”
“Yes,” said Patrick, his face a mask of barely controlled rage. “And a half dozen of my men as well. Someone poisoned the drinking water at the jail and killed everyone last night. I’ve lost five guards and a cook.”
“No one lived?”
“It was a nasty piece of business. Someone salted the food, so they all wanted water. We’re not a cruel bunch, so we gave them water. The jailers ate the same as the prisoners, and they’re all dead.”
“There’s more,” said Amos.
Swallow said, “A dozen men have turned up dead here and there in the city.”
“Probably men who went on the raid,” said Amos.
“If we could find Peter Dread and his crew, I’d bet we’d find them at the bottom of the sea. And I think we’d find those six Tsurani assassins down there with them, as well. Someone’s covering tracks.”
Nicholas said, “They’re all dead?”
Amos nodded. “It’s easy enough to do if you’ve got religious fanatics willing to die. Poisoning a ship’s water is far easier than a jail’s. And I’ll warrant we’ll find another couple of dozen corpses around the town before nightfall. Not that I begrudge that fate to any of the dogs who raided the Far Coast, but I’d like to squeeze one or two for information.”
Patrick said, “I’ll put the word on the street that anyone who went raiding with Render and Dread has a better chance to stay alive if they come forward.”
“Don’t think it’ll do any good,” said Amos, standing up. He scratched his head. “You’ve got a jail full of dead men to call that promise a lie.”
“Dammit, Amos,” said Patrick, “I’ll make sure no one we don’t know gets near anyone who gives himself up.”
Amos shook his head. “And you claim I’ve been too long away from the dodgy path, P
atrick. What would you do if you’d been on the raid? Same thing I would. You’d head for the hills and live off fruit and seabirds’ eggs as long as you could until you thought whatever wants you dead has left the island.”
Swallow’s eyes narrowed. “Whatever?” His voice lowered. “Don’t you mean whoever, Amos?”
Amos said, “You don’t want to know, William.” Looking at Marcus and Harry, he said, “You know what to do?”
Marcus nodded. “We’ve got to find that girl.”
—
MARCUS CAME AWAKE with a sense he was not alone. Ghuda motioned for silence as he reached for his sword. Then a voice said, “I told you all you needed to do was ask around and I’d find you.”
Brisa was sitting on the foot of Marcus’s bed, and he suddenly felt self-conscious. He quickly reached for his tunic and trousers. “What do you know of where the captives were taken?”
Brisa studied Marcus as he struggled to dress while he sat in bed. With a cocked smile she said, “You’ve a nice body there, my glowering lad. What was your name again?”
“Marcus,” he answered brusquely.
With a grin she said, “You’re cute when you’re upset, did you know?”
Marcus sat motionless for an instant, then he finished dressing under the covers. Ignoring her banter, he pushed back the covers and pulled on his boots. “What did you find out?”
“The price?”
“What do you want?” he asked sourly.
Feigning a pout, Brisa said, “I thought you liked me.”
His patience at an end, Marcus reached out suddenly and gripped the girl’s thin arm. “I don’t even—”
He found a dagger at his throat. He let go and the girl said, “That’s better. I don’t like being grabbed like that. If you’d given me half a chance, I’d probably have shown you how I like to be grabbed, but now that you’ve spoiled my mood, it’s going to take gold.”
Then Brisa’s arm was seized in a viselike grip and Ghuda was pulling the point away from Marcus’s throat. “Enough of the games, girl,” said the old mercenary. “And don’t try pulling that other dagger from your boot. I’ll snap your arm before you can.” He waited a moment, then released her.