The Necromancer's Grimoire (12 page)

His face was tightly grim. She was surprised to see several of the sailors dive overboard into the water and begin to swim toward the distant shore. The captain raised an arm and immediately the sails flapped uselessly and the deck leveled with a heave and a splash.

Montrose was quickly at her side, his hand on her arm. “He has surrendered.”

“Yes.”

“You say they will not gut us and toss us to the fishes?”

“No. They want the ship…and something else.” Her eyes searched for the enemy captain until they found him on the stern of the other ship.

He wore the billowing robes and short black beard of a Turk and a small white turban was wrapped around his head. His dark eyes were scanning his prize for that something else. They met hers. Amid the shouts of many men preparing the grapples and the flapping of loosened sails, she recognized in silence the man on the other ship. His face changed, too.

“What is it?”

“I have never seen him before, and yet...”

“Of course not,” Montrose said tightly. “He is a Barbary pirate.”

“No,” she said slowly. “Not Berber. Not pirate. He wants…” She closed her eyes again, seeking him in the dark of her mind. He appeared as a feeling with remembered scents of sandalwood and cinnamon. Handsome. Strong. No family of his own, but a beloved nephew who shadowed his every step on sea and shore. An intense love of the sea and its waves and weather. Proud. Loyal. Educated in ways she had not encountered in a man before, more even than Richard. Charts. Maps. She opened her eyes again. He felt familiar. “Stay silent and still,” she warned. “He will not allow us to be harmed.” She glanced at Alisdair who stood near the rail, sword drawn and legs wide apart to balance his bulk on the swaying deck. “Unless he is challenged.”

Montrose looked up sharply at Alisdair as well. “Understood.”

The sails hung limp and the boat rocked on the gentle waves. More men dove over the sides, as they were close enough to shore for a strong man to take his chances. Capture meant time at the other ship's oars. Grapples grabbed the rails and the Turks in pointed helmets scrambled over the sides, curved blades flashed as soon as they had footing on the deck.

Montrose had his hand on the pommel of his sword and his body became as rigid as an oak. Nadira put her hand over his to remind him to keep the sword sheathed. She felt his breath as short bursts in her hair. His muscles were poised to leap at the invaders, yet he obeyed her. She flicked her eyes quickly to Alisdair and Garreth. They would follow Montrose's lead. 
Maybe.
 Across the deck their captain stood tall with Corbett, DiMarco and Calvin together at the stern, eyes fixed on the Turkish captain. She felt William behind her. She moved her other hand behind her until it met his.

Nadira watched the men stand down, the captain surrounded by fierce soldiers, their blades drawn and pointed at their throats. Janissaries. She recognized the distinctive uniforms from her master's table three years ago. They were the sultan's elite corps of soldiers, captured as small boys from Christian villages and taken to Anatolia to be raised as Turkish warriors. She had served cakes and lemon water to many of the sultan's soldiers in the past, for the Turks had welcomed Spain's fleeing Jews. Her master had been a smuggler of people as well as a merchant of spices. Spain's intelligentsia left those dangerous shores for more friendly homes in Anatolia. She saw that the captain recognized the janissaries too. There would be no resistance.

When all was still but the flapping of the sails and the creaking of the ropes that held the ships together, the victorious captain made his way aboard. He said nothing, but inspected his prize with a steady experienced gaze. He was tall and his shoulders were strong from years hauling at rope and pulling on oars. Many lines creased his eyes from decades of scanning the sea and sky. He had a fine aquiline nose and the dark eyes were quick and bright. Corbett seemed to recognize him, for his face was cautious, but not alarmed. Nadira reached out a tendril, wondering how far she could extend the silver thread. It diminished as it moved farther and farther from her heart, but when the wispy strand touched the Turk, he turned immediately to face her.

She drew back against Montrose and the heavy sword immediately moved a handbreadth up from the scabbard with a threatening scrape. She pushed it back down and felt Montrose tremble with self-control. “No,” she breathed, “You would kill us all.”

The Turkish captain was before her in three long strides. He did not acknowledge the huge Englishman who towered over them both, nor the ruddy Scotsman beside her. He deigned to glance at William and she saw his eyes twitch as he recognized the young man's Franciscan habit, but then both eyes bored into her like the mouth of his brass cannons. She stood straight and met his eyes, one hand squeezing Montrose's sword hand and the other in William's.

“Nadide,” he said in a low voice.

“Nadira,” she corrected. He smiled then and showed even white teeth behind his short black beard. He said something in Turkish, which she did not understand. Behind each of her men a Turkish soldier appeared. She blinked, waiting for another signal.

“I have rescued you from your infidel captors,” he said in very learned Arabic.

Nadira gave him a polite smile. She answered in kind, “I am honored by your courtesy, and eager to inform you that these men are not my captors but my bodyguards.”

The dark eyebrows went up and he gave William a pointed look. “A Franciscan guard?”

“Oh.” Nadira felt color rise in her cheeks. “My guards and my scribe.”

The Turkish captain looked at the men again with different eyes. Nadira looked only at him. He emanated something she had never felt before. She tried the tendril of light again. When it touched his chest he swung the dark eyes back to her and put his hand over the place where the tendril entered. “I am Ahmed Kemaleddin, captain of the 
Illuyankas
, and the 
reis
 of this fleet. Yes, it is you I seek. You are to come with me. I have been sent by the great Padishah to bring you to him.”

Nadira gasped.

Instantly Montrose drew his sword. He had not understood the words, but understood the alarm on her face. Alisdair raised his claymore in a high arc that made the Turks step back. The janissaries quickly doubled as more men with crossbows and cutlasses poured in from the other galley. Nadira was wrenched away from the mast by Kemaleddin Reis.

“No!” she cried.

Kemal Reis raised his arm and the janissaries froze in place, leaving her men back-to-back, swords and ax ready. No one moved.

The janissaries were poised to strike; crossbows with their thick flanged bolts were pointed at each man's chest. Nadira took great breaths to calm herself. She knew there was no danger. Yet here it was before her eyes. The sight of the sharp points forced her to imagine what the iron tips could do to a man's chest as the bolt flew from the wooden frame and through his body. They made her wonder how sensitive the triggers were. She looked into the cold eyes of the janissary bowmen. What her eyes told her and what her heart told her were so different. The Turkish captain's grip on her arm tightened.

Kemal spoke to her softly in Arabic. “If you want to keep your brave bodyguards, you must tell them to drop their swords.”

She did not hesitate. “He says you must drop your swords,” she said in English.

Alisdair growled. “I have never dropped my sword.” Garreth snorted in agreement, and shook his ax.

She appealed to Montrose. “My lord. Remember what I told you. You must trust me.”

“How can I?” he said through clenched teeth. “How can I drop my sword? If I am to be skewered by Saracens…”

The man beside her insisted. “I will take you to the sultan with or without your bodyguards.”

She turned to look up at him. His face was composed, confident. She believed him. “Sayyid…please,” she whispered to him.

He shook his head. “Not ‘sayyid'. Tell them to stand down, or with a word they will fall, each with a bolt through their hearts.”

She raised her voice and put a fierce edge to it. “Drop your swords! Now!”

She was only slightly surprised to hear the clang of weapons bounce on the wooden deck, but not as surprised as the three men who turned to stare at her, incredulous, empty hands held out in front of them.

“You have not used that power on them before, I see.” Kemal Reis signaled to the janissaries. “Bind them. Bring them.”

“Bey, they are my friends.”

“Not Bey. I am the 
reis
 of this ship. Call me 
reis
.” He gestured to her men. “They are indebted to you for their lives. Tell them to stop struggling.”

She said to them in English, “Let them take you. You will not be harmed. The captain has promised. We go to the sultan.” She could not meet their eyes, for she felt the hurt and betrayal that emanated from them, but they relaxed against their bonds. William was pale as death as a janissary led him to the gangplank that connected the two ships. She could feel his terror. A man in a cassock had much to fear in a Turkish prison. She tried to catch his eye to reassure him, but he was already beyond her.

Kemal Reis looked about him, making decisions.

“This ship?” She asked him. She thought about the 
Hermetica
 and the elixirs in Corbett's baggage. They would be found and confiscated. The captain of the captured ship and his remaining crew looked miserable. If their families could not pay the ransoms, they would spend the rest of their lives below decks, chained to an oar. A short life. The passengers below had fled the French king to find themselves Turkish prisoners, if not ransomed, then sold as slaves.

“Not your concern.” The 
reis
 interrupted her thoughts. He nodded to one of his men who stepped forward with a thin rope.

She met Montrose's darkened eyes. He trusted her completely. She saw it in the way his shoulders straightened, and his arms relaxed against the rope that bound his wrists. Alisdair was not so certain, and Garreth stared longingly at the ax at his feet.

“I have been sent to escort you to the Padishah.” Kemal reminded her.

Nadira was escorted to the 
reis
's tiny cabin and placed gently upon a large stuffed pillow. Two janissaries sat staring at her intently. She blinked her eyes at her captors and teased them with tendrils of light from her heart. They were uncomfortable and visibly relieved when Kemal entered and dismissed them.

“We shall be in port tomorrow before dark.” He sat down opposite her on the low bench against the bulkhead. “Your companions are enjoying a bit of exercise.”

She glowered at that news. “You have them at the oars?”

“Yes. They are well-muscled like heavy 
frenki
 horses. I cannot waste that power. Every man here takes a turn at the oars.” His dark eyes were amused, but she did not return the humor.

“And the lash?”

“Used sparingly, I assure you.”

She closed her eyes to see this. 
Yes.
 Three lash marks were livid across Alisdair's broad freckled back. The proud Scotsman was stripped to the waist and chained alone to an oar. 
Why lashed?
 The vision came to her of his huge ruddy fists pounding his smaller seatmates until they fell below the bench and were hauled away by the crew. Montrose was bent to his oar beside Calvin, his face as dark as she had ever seen it with a fury that made her wince. He had not been struck. Yet. Corbett and DiMarco were bound below, too old to row. William? 
There he is.
 At an oar beside Garreth. His tender hands were already blistered and raw from the rough wood. It would be some time before he would hold a quill without pain.

Her eyes flashed open at the 
reis
. “At least take my cleric from the oars. You will destroy his hands.”

He leaned forward, elbows on knees. In a soft voice he said, “As you wish.” She heard the sound of a man getting to his feet outside the thin wood door that separated the compartment from the deck. She knew it would be done. “Any other demands, Nadira 
Hanim-effendi
?”

Nadira sat back and lifted her chin. “Do not mock me, I am no princess.” He had addressed her with the honorific of a great lady.

“I am told you are.” Kemal leaned to his left and pulled a roll from a small wooden box beside him. He spread it out on his knees. She could see the beautiful calligraphy that suggested a learned scribe. Kemal tilted the edge of the document so she could read the sultan's signature at the bottom, a beautiful swirling design that told more about him than his name. “It says here that you are the daughter of Jasmine Hanim, who was daughter of Abu Muhammad Abd Al-Haqq and then was wife to Ahmed Sanjakbey.” He looked up at her. “This means your mother's uncle was Sultan of Morocco. His son, your cousin, now rules. A cousin to the sultan, hence, 
princess
.”

Nadira thought hard to remember. She knew her mother's family had been more important than her father's. Her mother had been given as a reward for her father's service in war. He had taken a city, perhaps. She struggled to remember the story
. Captured a city and acquired a young daughter of a sultan. Yes.
 Brought into the royal family as a reward and to cement his loyalty so he could be trusted to hold the city in her father's name. She shook her head. That part of her life had been banished from her thoughts long ago. Jasmine had told her only enough to answer the questions of a child. Nadira knew that her mother disliked speaking of her life before Barcelona. Her voice would become cold and hard and her eyes would glitter with a fierce anger. Nadira learned quickly not to ask.

She glared at him. “If this means I will be better treated and my men protected, then so be it. I am beyond that life. It means nothing to me.” Something else occurred to her. “How is it the sultan knows who I am? How is it he sends a ship for me?”