Risen

  His first order of business was to find out who knew something—anything—about slave trade. This would not be easy, for profitability, even under black circumstances, prevented many from sharing sources. But Ravan already knew the minds of men such as these, and so it was he chose to enter his search as a seller, not a buyer. The logical first place to look was the harbor…

  “The dock master…yes, for tax! There must be a list!” Velecent’s lean face seemed renewed,

  And so they found themselves, in short order, at the harbor master’s office. Pounding a second time on the timbered door of the small building, they were greeted by a man of considerable stature.

  Pulling a wool cloak over his shoulders as though he would leave, the fellow said cheerily, “Business is closed today, gentlemen. I am open again in—”

  Before he could finish his statement, Ravan’s strategy was lost on him. Urgency overcame him and a sweet red swept across his sight, slowing and darkening everything in a most perfect way. The harbormaster may as well have been the man who stole Risen from his home.

  Ravan pushed his way into the small building, murder in his eyes. Velecent kicked the door closed behind them and reached for the shoulder of his friend. The harbormaster backed away and sat down heavily onto a chair, almost as though he was used to such a late evening’s interruption.

  The fellow—obviously used to dealing with the likes of those who bargained here—was almost unimposing. Yes, he appeared unhappy to engage the strangers but was otherwise not concerned by the visitors, not one bit.

  “There’s no coin here,” he said simply. “I do not deal in capital; all funds are collected and moved to an armed depot several times a day. I’m sorry, this is only a record library that you’ve come to. There is a flotilla that enforces the rules; you will not leave port without their consent.”

  The man spoke French but with an accent. His courage was unusual…or foolish…and Ravan thought his accent possibly Spanish or Portuguese. It was enough to draw the red from the mercenary’s eyes.

  “It is the records that interest me. Nothing more. Help me and you will not be harmed.” Ravan’s raw voice carried with it the weight of serious intent, and the man seemed more than happy to comply.

  “Well if it’s records you want, we’ve no issue then. All business is legitimate. We can have a look first thing in—”

  “Now. We look now,” Ravan stabbed his finger onto the middle of the only table in the room.

  The gentleman shot Velecent a pained expression from beneath bushy brows, as though to say, “I don’t like your friend…”

  In short order, they had several sheaves of records spread before them on the table, lists of goods that were bought and sold, and the tariffs paid for their captain’s right to use the port. Amongst the lists were two ships that had sailed in the last week carrying slaves. The list and descriptions were as follows:

  ~The Μαύρο άλογο (black horse) a Greek vessel, Captain Tasoula Bakas: Amongst the cargo, thirty-two slaves. These were twenty adult males and twelve adult females. This ship sailed three days ago for Carthage.

  ~The Bakire Kurt (Virgin Wolf), Turkish vessel, Captain Mesud Demetrios: Amongst the cargo, ninety-two slaves—sixty-seven adult males, nineteen adult females, four youth male, and one youth female. The ship sailed three evenings before for Antalya.

  A youth female. Sylvie, it had to be Sylvie! “They have Risen and Sylvie!” Ravan exclaimed then turned on the harbor master. “Describe the youth males. What did they look like?”

  The man shrugged. “I would not remember such a thing. The records are not specific, only estimated age.” He listed the male youth’s ages as two of them being fourteen, one twelve. The female was listed as also twelve and “crippled.”

  “Describe them, the male youth.” Ravan stepped around the table and toward the man, hands clenched. He drew his knife, spun it around and over the back of his hand and impaled it center on the table, through the paperwork. He added simply, “I will kill you as you stand if you do not describe them. Your memory had best serve you.” His palm remained resting loosely on the butt of the blade. Ravan did not look up, only waited.

  The man held both hands up and struggled to his feet, a look of genuine surprise flashing across his face. “I’ve no argument with you. I…I…let me think. Yes, yes. Of course! I remember.” The harbormaster licked his lips and sidled sideways to place the table more between himself and the obviously crazed visitor. His eyes shifted, and regret flashed across his face as Velecent squared himself, arms crossed, allowing the man to move no farther toward the door.

  Ravan glanced up, pulled the blade from the table, and tested its edge with his thumb. “Yes?”

  “The boys, the older ones. Brown hair, I think. The lot of them, rugged—farm boys they appeared, from what I could tell, with the filth and all.”

  “The youngest boy…and the girl.” Ravan approached the harbormaster, pressed the tip of the blade against the man’s chest.

  The fellow held both hands up, as though this would prompt pity from his persecutor.

  “I’m sorry. I cannot…you’re hurting me. I—”

  Ravan eased the blade away a small bit then lifted it as though he would swing. “Very well, then you will die.”

  “Yes! Wait! Yes, the female. Fragile little thing; can’t believe they would even barter with her. Cripple, as I said, with a brace on her leg. Hair light as flax. A pretty one she was. The boy, about her age, seemed compelled to be close to her…I…”

  Ravan’s eyes burned with anticipation. “Go on.”

  “Yes, yes…sturdy fellow, hair dark as the night and eyes like…like…” He peered more closely at his antagonist. “…yours. Yes, he is yours; looks just like you! Of course! That is why you are…” The man let his sentence trail off and dropped his hand to his sides. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” He gestured to the records. “Most of these are orphaned and have no family. They go wherever the winds take them, and sometimes it is here.”

  “Silence!” Ravan commanded before spinning away from him, retreating into his own thoughts.

  So it was true. Risen and Sylvie were aboard a ship and bound for Antalya two mornings before. He barely missed catching them, by only two and a half days. He was all at once broken, his heart torn with failure. Just then he wished for nothing more than to have Nicolette here, so that she might give him strength, give him hope. A lesser man would have caved with the emotional and physical exhaustion of it all, but Ravan was not a lesser man. He spun back to the harbormaster.

  “Tell me of this Demetrios and his ship. Who is he?”

  The man shrugged as though all should know. “He is the captain of the Virgin Wolf. It is a big ship. Deals solely in human trade.” The harbormaster glanced away. “His partner is Yeorathe Baknan. That one knows his profit margins better than most. He is the only one out of Toulon who trades in soldado juventude, how do you say…child soldiers? He runs with Demetrios, takes their ship to Morea, and this time…” he hesitated, rechecked his records to be sure, “…yes, to Antalya. It is there they will sell to the slaves, likely Devsirme.”

  “Devsirme?” The man was speaking words unfamiliar to Ravan. “What is this?”

  He stepped closer and listened closely as the harbormaster described Demetrios as a “maniot” sea captain who dealt specifically in the profit of slaves. The captain appeared to supply transportation for slave trade across the Mediterranean Sea into regions east, especially Turkey. His partner, the one named Yeorathe, was occupied more with the acquisition of the slaves, although he was a Seljuk Turk. They were heading to his homeland, Antalya. The harbormaster had only seen the ship in port a handful of times. It was, evidently, a blossoming venture for the two of them.

  “Yeorathe, did you say? You are certain?” Ravan’s expression narrowed.

  “Yes. Yes, that is correct.”

  “Why?” Velecent was immediately curious.

  “Yeorathe. He is one of the four.?
?? Ravan’s expression revealed a growing realization. “He was one of the two survivors, at the inn before I came home.” He looked at Velecent. “It is revenge. The conflict was for revenge.”

  “But the boy lives. We know that now.” Velecent indicated the papers. “They must not know!”

  “Why?” Ravan demanded of the harbor master. “Why do the Turks want child slaves?” And for the second time they heard of the one called Murad I—the Turkish Sultan who led the Ottoman Empire—and the orphan army he trained.

  “It is the work of evil!” Velecent exclaimed.

  “Call it what you will,” the harbormaster shrugged again. “It is profitable on many fronts, and that cannot be disputed.”

  “I need a ship, tonight,” Ravan demanded as though the man could pull one from his pocket.

  The fellow appeared surprised. “There are none to be had at this hour, none reasonable coin could afford.”

  “Unreasonable, then, and there is very little to keep me from being entirely disappointed with you,” Ravan said through clenched teeth and raised the blade again so that the man might seriously consider it.

  “Wait…wait. There is one. Captain can be a right…difficult sort. But for the right price he would get you there, perhaps before the other, less than two weeks I’d wager.”

  “Name and where I might find him.”

  “He is just into harbor this eve. I can tell you where he will likely be…”

  * * *

  It was not long before Ravan and Velecent stood in front of a tavern, right on the edge of the waterfront. It was connected to a warehouse of sorts, a building of considerable size. It was here, at this tavern, they were told they could find anyone or anything, coming or going.

  The front of the establishment was heavily boarded, but the sound within was staggering, even from a distance. Ravan hesitated, and Velecent gestured with a “you first” sway of his arm, a look of near amusement crossing his face. His leader scowled, and the two advanced on the tavern shoulder to shoulder only to be stopped abruptly at the door.

  “You may not bring your weapons in with you,” the man barring the entrance explained as dully as he might explain how to peel a boiled egg.

  He held a staff across Velecent’s chest as though he would control the two men as a shepherd would herd sheep. It was Ravan’s instinct to reach his hand for his sword.

  But Velecent said straight up, “Of course. We are not here to wage hostility but profit and respite.” He flashed a brilliant smile and went to ungird his own sword, glancing at Ravan as he indicated that he should do the same.

  “And we can be guaranteed there are none armed within this establishment?” Ravan wondered.

  “None who would survive if they pulled them,” the doorman answered wryly and received the weapons from the men. He stepped aside, allowing the two to pass.

  It was a crowded group that milled heavily within, speaking loudly in several tongues, all swinging the spirit of their choice as they reveled. All of them, despite lacking their weapons, appeared a rough lot and smelled strongly of salt and rot. Ravan’s stomach turned that his son had been somewhere amongst the dregs of this town. Velecent pushed eagerly past him.

  No one seemed to take much notice of the two that entered, even unusual as they were with their battle leathers and warriors’ countenance. Making their way to the bar, Ravan squeezed between two men, one of them too drunk to notice he’d lost his spot, the other not prepared to engage this stranger in conversation. It was several minutes before someone asked him what it was he desired.

  “I need to know where I might find a man,” He said loud enough for the man to hear.

  The vendor’s eyes flashed in return. He was portly and heavily bearded and glanced furtively about. “I cannot be of help to you. I don’t know your friend.”

  “I would take two draughts of your best ale and have you hear a name. If not, I will happily burn this place to the ground.” Ravan said it almost casually. “And then my friend,” he indicated Velecent who nodded cheerily their direction, “will piss on you to put the fire out.”

  Velecent smiled widely and shrugged in polite agreement to the terms.

  When the man appeared genuinely confused, perhaps believing the patrons to be mad, he said, “Business is tendered elsewhere. Here we eat, drink, spend.”

  “It is only a name.” On Ravan’s face was clearly the intent that this barbarian would kill all present, or die trying, if his question was not answered to his liking. And the first to go would be the bartender.

  The man glanced left and then right. There were men at either corner of the establishment, armed men to keep the crowd in check, obviously.

  Velecent stepped in, continued to smile at the bartender. “You can call your dogs out if you wish, but do you really want to risk him reaching you before they reach him?”

  As though believing the mercenary would indeed scale the bar to reach him, the man checked his flank one last time. Lifting two ales onto the bar, he eased closer to Ravan, his voice dropping to just loud enough above the din for Ravan to hear. “Harm can come to me. I will listen, but I cannot guarantee help.”

  Ravan just began to say, “Salvat—” when he heard a loud exclamation from across the room behind him.

  “I will gut you this time, Salvatore! You have insulted my honor for the last time!”

  There was a crash and a thud as the angry man leapt over a table, taking with him the gentleman with whom he was evidently at great odds. Both men careened to the floor but were fast lifted to their feet by the milling crowd.

  Salvatore was held by several men—obvious friends of his attacker—while the other man took the chance to land two blows, one to his midriff, the other to his face.

  The ship’s captain laughed, spat blood, and retorted, “Oh, yes? Might I say, she would be more faithful if you didn’t swing like a woman.”

  This was enough to prompt another volley of blows. Despite the sailor’s struggles, he could not break free of those who held him.

  Velecent had by then a drink and used it to indicate Salvatore. “Fellow’s a bit outnumbered, wouldn’t you say?”

  He had no time for a response for Ravan was already moving into the fray. He hit the two men who held Salvatore hard from behind, taking all four of them down in a writhing heap onto the earthen tavern floor. Velecent chose to remain at the bar, content to drink his ale and see how three men fared against Ravan and Salvatore.

  He looked at the bartender, “Meat please. Whatever you have, as long as it is cooked and not rotten.” He swung lazily around to watch the fight.

  Three of the group were on their feet by then and swinging. Ravan felled one easily then took a blow from another only to fall into the arms of the Spanish captain.

  Salvatore righted him and shot with a grin, “I regret not to have met you before tonight.”

  Before Ravan could say anything, both of them were set upon by the other three. Down the five men went and this time stayed on the ground, kicking chairs, swinging fists. It was too chaotic for a proper match and, for the most part, fairly inefficient.

  The brawl was hot and fast but ended seconds later as the proprietor himself pulled a sword and gestured with it to the group, bellowing loud enough for all to hear. “Gentlemen, take your quarrel outside. I have the stomach for revelry, even sport, but my establishment will not survive sport such as yours.”

  Salvatore said without delay, “We’ll stop our fighting! I promise…if you’ll let us drink—”

  “Especially you,” the bartender leveled the sword at him and indicated the door.

  Ravan’s ale remained un-drunk, and Velecent had scarcely downed his, taken a short draught from Ravan’s, and grabbed the overcooked lamb shank before they were ushered from the tavern, their weapons tossed after them.

  Salvatore was shoved past them both but righted himself and gestured nobly, bowing in front of Ravan as he gathered and strapped on his sword. “My gratitude, friend…friends.
May the wind be forever at your back.” The captain smiled broadly, a black eye already presenting itself. Then he smoothed his jacket, turned and staggered a small bit as he started off into the night, whistling the first notes of an unfamiliar tune.

  Velecent took a bite from the lamb shank and pointed at the man with it. “He’s getting away.”

  “Salvatore.” Ravan spoke only his name, but the way it rolled from his tongue was enough to have the man stop.

  The captain glanced cautiously over his shoulder as he turned slowly about, his hand going casually to the hilt of his sword. “Sir, I am at a disadvantage as I do not know your name. How am I to know if you are friend or foe?” He continued to step slowly backward, farther away from Ravan and Velecent, his pace and stance indicating that his talent with the sword was perhaps considerable.

  “I need a ship,” Ravan said simply.

  The captain squinted narrowly, looked Ravan up and down, and replied, “You don’t seem the seaworthy sort to me, if you don’t mind me saying.” He gestured with a flick of his wrist, and started to turn about as though he would be on his way.

  “I need passage, and it would be well worth considering,” Ravan added.

  This was enough to have the man pause. He spun again slowly and crossed both arms across his chest. “Sirs, mine is not…normally…a merchant vessel. Neither is it for hire…cheaply.”

  “Yours is the ship I need if I am to beat another in a race. Is it not?”

  This seemed to pique the interest of Salvatore a great deal. His eyes shot wide, wide as his recent beating would allow. “You have my interest. Tell me more of this race.”

  “Past Moreo, into Antalya. I must be there by two week’s end.”

  The captain appeared surprised. “Antalya, you say? Ah, now there is a port one can die in.” He started to walk a lazy, wide circle around Ravan and Velecent. “Tell me, what is it you seek should you win your race?”