Blood and Oak- Wolves Will Eat Page 5

“Naim,” John cried, “Please.”

  The Chronicler’s grip only tightened. John shared a look with his friend. “Ethan,” said John. “I’m sorry, mate. I’m sorry.”

  Ethan swallowed hard. His breathing turned shallow.

  Naim turned the handle. Ethan shrieked as the vice closed on his left hand, his face twisting in agony. Naim’s eyes didn’t leave John’s as he completed a quarter turn. The crosspiece stopped after a few millimeters. Ethan’s cries settled into hard breathing.

  As Naim walked toward John, the shark-eyed Djedid handed him the pitcher of dark green oil—the oil John had selected less than an hour ago, rather than honey or wine. Naim poured it over the stake. Then he returned to the auger above Ethan’s right hand. “All this time, you thought the stake was your torment. In fact, it’s what your friend will lose, piece by piece, each time your foot slips. The rule is simple: if your foot is on the stake, the hand crusher stops.”

  Naim turned the handle again. Ethan cried out, sweat blistering on his skin.

  John fumbled to get his foot on the stake, but it slipped off of the slick oil. The rope bit into his wrist as his body dangled. Ethan writhed in a vain attempt to pull his hand out of the crusher. John tried again, this time managing to plant the ball of his foot on the post.

  Naim let go of the auger and Ethan’s cries ceased. “The stake is not your torment. It is your only vain hope.” Naim folded his arms under his kaftan and left the chamber.

  John’s calf began to tremble. The slippery oil squeaked under his foot as he fought to stay on the post. John found his own dread reflected in the eyes of his friend. At the edges of the room, two Nizam-I Djedid watched from the shadows. A third stood ready with his hand on the auger of the hand crusher.

  Chapter 8

  The Lake Fort

  Slave Pens

  Sunday, September 11th, 1803

  Day Two, After Midnight

  Melisande Dufort paced behind a latticework of iron bars. It was one of nine box-shaped slave cages arranged in the open air courtyard of the Lake Fort. To the south across the ramparts and tunnels of the lower fort, the castle rose into the night sky. During the previous day, the sun scorched her neck, arms, and the sandy flagstones under her feet. There had been no refuge from the brutal Tunisian sun. A covered colonnade ran along the walls of the courtyard, and many of the Nizam-I Djedid patrolled the ramparts above and the columned archways below. She was the only prisoner at the moment. How she had envied the guards sipping from canteens and taking breaks in the shade.

  The guards had taken her cellmate Ethan Auldon away in chains an hour ago. She had come here with him in a small skiff to aide her friend, John Sullivan, in his search for his lost family. But their guide on the journey—“Old Scruffy” as she had called him—revealed himself to be an assassin named Varlick Naim before taking them all prisoner. Now, she rubbed her shoulders against the frigid night, made worse by the breeze coming off the lake. Her sailor’s shirt and trousers offered little warmth. The sight of the rows of empty slave pens gave her the creeps. What did Old Scruffy need all these slave pens for, anyway? Melisande shuddered. The last time she’d seen a place like this, she’d been in the slave markets of the Chesapeake.

  “Say, Kitty Whiskers.” To alleviate her boredom, Melisande was pacing a circle within the cage and attempting to annoy her guard. Like most of his comrades, the Djedid soldier wore a red jacket, felt hat, blue pantaloons, and a sheathed scimitar. But this one had a mustache oiled and drawn into rigid spears—thus her nickname. “I don’t suppose you can tell me where my friends are?” She grabbed the bars, spitting the words at the soldier’s back. “Where’s Fiddles? Where’s Sully?”

  The soldier stood as rigid and implacable as ever, long-barreled musket resting at his shoulder.

  “I’ll keep asking, Kitty Whiskers. Don’t think I won’t!” Melisande paced another loop. She doubted the soldier understood a word, but it was still fun to pester him. The truth was, she couldn’t stay silent even if she wanted to. Even as the sand wore down the callouses on her feet, she couldn’t stop walking. It had been the same in Prune Street Debtor’s Prison. Nothing drove Melisande mad like standing still. “Where’s my war club? What about my tobacco? Hmm? They better be in good shape.”

  No answer. The second guard, stationed across from Kitty Whiskers, narrowed his eyes at her—eyes that looked too close together for a man with so broad a chin. His eyes gleamed in the light of the torch sconce.

  Melisande switched to the Tuscarora language. “When I escape, I will have a chew and stave in one of your heads. I have not decided which first.”

  Kitty Whiskers narrowed his eyes.

  If only there weren’t two, Melisande thought. When the guard finally had enough and dared to move close, Melisande could kick him in the balls, get him in a headlock, and break his neck against the bars. But then the other would raise the alarm.

  Before Melisande could pace another loop, a boy of perhaps eight approached the guards with a tray of food and drink. He had wiry arms and short black hair. The odor of the lake parted for the aroma of coffee, and Melisande breathed in the scent. One thing she could say for the Turks—their coffee made her salivate. She hadn’t had a cup since the USS Philadelphia, and that brew had been watery and boiled. The bread drizzled in olive oil didn’t help her growling stomach. She grabbed the bars, watching longingly as the two soldiers collected their fare.

  “Don’t suppose either of you fellas are in the mood to share,” lamented Melisande.

  The Djedid ignored her. They smiled and gave the boy what sounded like encouraging words.

  “Hey, there, handsome chap,” said Melisande, drawing the boy’s attention. “Don’t suppose you could slip me a little something?” She pantomimed putting food in her mouth to show her meaning. He looked at her with big eyes. He glanced back at the soldiers, who were busy eating, then produced a pink cube from his pocket. The boy offered her his candy. Melisande always had a way with children. Given another moment, she might have him serving her the keys. “Well, aren’t you kind!”

  Kitty Whiskers stopped eating and thrust the butt of his musket. Melisande pulled her fingers out of the way just in time. The weapon slammed into the bars with a resounding clang. The boy stuffed the candy back in his pocket and scurried away. The two Djedid glowered at her.

  Melisande threw her hands up in mock apology. “What? Can’t blame a girl for trying.”

  An hour later, Melisande sat in the corner, huddled up and shivering. The waning crescent moon floated overhead. She looked over at her guards, surprised to find a rare crack in their discipline. Cross Eyes was leaning back against the opposite cage, yawning. Kitty Whiskers sat cross-legged in the sand, musket across his lap. Then he tilted and fell over, eyes closed. Cross Eyes took a few steps toward his comrade. But he had the droopy eyes and wobbly gait of a drunk. He reached a hand toward Kitty Whiskers, froze for a second, then collapsed on top of him, buckles clattering.

  Melisande sat up in disbelief. “Shit! They’re fainted dead away. What could of…?”

  “Psst!”

  Melisande started at the sound. She looked around the empty cages of the courtyard, certain she’d just heard a whisper. The soldiers patrolling the ramparts hadn’t yet noticed their sleeping comrades. Her eyes landed on a metal drain a few feet outside her cage. It whined open a crack.

  “Psst!” came the whisper again. “Melisande. Melisande Dufort. Ethan Auldon. Are you up there?”

  Melisande pressed her face against the bars. She thought she saw a pair of eyes glinting from under the lifted grate.

  “Melisande Dufort,” the voice whispered again. “Ethan Auldon. Are either of you up there?”

  “Hello?” Melisande whispered.

  The grate lifted open and a ray of moonlight fell on the scraggly beard of a middle-aged man. He had red and grey hair, and a burn over the lower left half of his face. He set the grate gently aside, careful not to make a sound, then climbed out of the ea
rth. There were few torches burning, and those mostly under the colonnade. The man crawled over to Melisande, cloaked in darkness, looking at her through the bars with wild eyes. “Melisande Dufort,” he whispered again, his accent noticeably Irish. He looked at the unconscious guards. “Good, good. They’re asleep.”

  “What?” Melisande whispered. “Who’re you?”

  The man produced a key from the pocket of his patchwork kaftan and unlocked her cell. “We’ve got to hurry.”

  Melisande didn’t question the crazy codger. The moment the bars came open, she hurried out.

  “My name’s Declan Sullivan,” he said. “I’m here to help.”

  “Wait,” whispered Melisande. She crept through the darkness behind him. “Did you say ‘Sullivan?’ As in John Sullivan?”

  “Aye. John is my son.”

  “You’re Sully’s papa?” Melisande pronounced the fatherly honorific in the French fashion. “It’s an honor to meet you! I can see the…” Melisande knit her brows as she looked over the man’s weathered, disheveled appearance—a far cry from his dapper midshipman son. “…resemblance.”

  “Aye, lass, charmed. Where’s Ethan Auldon? There was supposed to be two of you.”

  “They took him. A couple hours ago. I don’t know where.”

  “Damn. We’ll have to find him later. Hurry.”

  Melisande helped Declan prop the unconscious guards into a sitting position. With only the moonlight to illuminate the courtyard, hopefully the soldiers on the walls would think they were only resting their feet. Eventually, though, someone would catch on.

  Melisande went first into the sewer drain, followed by Declan. A ladder of twine and driftwood led into the cesspit below. “Now I see where Sully gets his clever wit. How the hell did you plan all this?”

  “It wasn’t me.” Declan carefully lowered the grating. “It was a thief called the Red Hart.”

  “And you know this thief?”

  “Aye.” Declan chuckled as if he couldn’t believe his own words. “She’s my daughter.”

  Melisande looked up at Declan, blinking. “Wait, you mean Sully’s sister? Katie? The one we’ve been looking for all this time? You’re telling me she’s the one breaking us out of the clink?”

  “Aye, the very same.”

  “Damn.” It should have sounded ridiculous, but when Melisande thought about it, she realized it made perfect sense. Like brother, like sister. Dashing rogues ran in the Sullivan family line. She grinned. “I have got to meet this girl.”

  Chapter 9

  The Lake Fort

  Sewer Tunnel

  Sunday, September 11th, 1803

  Day Two, After Midnight

  “So…” said Melisande Dufort “…we’re just supposed to sit down here chewing the fat in the dark?”

  “Aye, lass.” Declan sat on the concrete ledge bordering the circular cesspool. A shaft of moonlight from the courtyard grate fell across his scraggly beard. “This is where Katie bid me wait, and I aim to do as she says.”

  Melisande crossed her arms as she paced another half circle on the other side of the domed space. She kicked a pebble into the putrefying, ankle-deep water. “You realize you’re talking about obeying your daughter. Who’s fourteen. And steals stuff from heavily armed men.”

  Declan looked at the black water, scratching at the burn scars on his left cheek.

  “You’re worse than your son, Papa Sully!” continued Melisande, slipping into French. “Vous gaspillez mes talents! We ought to be up there—helping Katie.”

  “Don’t you think I’d rather be?” the old sailor wheezed. “I’m a bloody cripple, for a first. And for a second, I’ve seen what Katie can do. I know she’s got a plan, and the best we can do is stay out of her way. When she needs our help, she’ll ask.”

  “And when’ll that be?”

  A girl murmured behind Melisande, “Now, I expect.”

  Declan jumped back against the wall.

  “Who the—” Melisande whirled to face the intruder. Her foot slipped on a wet stone, and she splashed ass-first in the cesspool. She floundered back to the dry ledge. The air filled with a stench like rotting offal.

  “Christ!” Melisande panted on her haunches. A figure crouched on the opposite edge like a cat on a fence. She wore a black cowl and kaftan made of goatskin—or perhaps sheepskin. Her face was darkness, save for a moonlit chin.

  “Thank God.” Declan’s voice was choked with tears. He trembled like a condemned man given a reprieve. “I was so worried.”

  “I’m all right, Da.” Kaitlin drew back the cowl, and her long red curls lit up in the moonlight. She was childlike, with the freckles trailing across her cheeks. But also womanly with her alert, penetrating eyes. Somewhere in the slender curve of her jaw, the gentle slope of her nose, Melisande could see the resemblance to Sully. “I’ve hit a bit of a snag.”

  “You might have announced yourself.” Melisande stood up dripping and brushing off pond scum. “I near browned my trousers.”

  Kaitlin giggled, then abruptly snapped her mouth closed.

  “Oh, you like that, eh?” Melisande smiled. “Bonjour, Kaitlin. I’m—”

  “Melisande Dufort. Johnny’s friend from the Americas. I know.”

  “You do? How?”

  “I read Varlick Naim’s chronicles.” Kaitlin’s tone turned ominous. “He knows all about you. That’s how I planned your escape.”

  “Yeah…Scruffy really dug around in our heads on the boat ride over—wily old goat. Anyway, thanks for springing me from the clink. I owe you a chew.” Melisande reached for a handshake.

  “When she’s old enough,” Declan interjected.

  “We have to go.” Kaitlin looked to Melisande’s outstretched hand, then backed away, the shadows enveloping her. Her voice echoed from deeper in the tunnel. “We’re short on time.”

  Declan picked up a gnarled stick of driftwood and used it as a cane. He hobbled after Kaitlin. “What’s the matter, love?”

  “It’s Johnny and his friend. Naim’s still with them in the tower.”

  Melisande hurried after, following father and daughter back to the main sewer. Kaitlin was leading them briskly down the tunnel, a muddy stream of runoff spilling around their feet. They came to a dead-end stone wall with a small hole broken though at the base. Kaitlin led them through to an old dungeon cell and then a series of corridors. Eventually, they came to a junction of four halls, each leading to a different point on the compass. In the middle of the open area, a burning brazier stood at the center of four statues. The crackling fire illuminated white marble figures in flowing robes.

  The four statues gazed down at Melisande, each exuding its own unearthly presence. A breast-plated warrior with a sword and shield. A seductive woman with an owl on one arm and a spear in the other. A nude, muscular athlete playing a harp. Kaitlin stepped in front of the fourth—a goddess with sandals laced to the calf and a dress falling to her knees. The statue held a torch high in each hand. Kaitlin reached up and pulled the torch on the right. There was a grinding of metal from somewhere inside the wall, and the statue lurched forward. As if by magic, the goddess rolled forth, revealing a dark space behind.

  “You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you Lil Red?” marveled Melisande.

  “What’s this now, love?” asked Declan.

  “A hidden passage,” Kaitlin said. “A stone ladder runs within the castle wall all the way up to the top of the Grand Tower—where Naim is staying. Lords and ladies would have used it long ago to escape a siege. My fence says the Spanish who built it loved their clever escape plans.”

  “So that’s how you’ve been getting around,” said Declan with an incredulous smile. “You’re keen as those old Crusaders, and no mistake.”

  Kaitlin stared into the eyes of the torch-bearing goddess. “The bey’s minister is here. Naim was supposed to go down and see him, but instead he stays in the tower chamber, writing in his journal. My brother and his friend are being held in the study bel
ow. If Naim doesn’t leave the tower, I can’t get to them. And if I don’t get to them soon, the Djedid will learn you’re missing and come looking.” Her eyes fell to a sculpted cat, its tail curled around the leg of the goddess. “It’s all gone wrong. You two have to go.”

  “You mustn’t say that, love,” said Declan. “I’m sure it’s not as bad as all that.”

  “Melisande, these are yours.” Kaitlin retrieved a bandolier bag from within the passage and handed it to Melisande. A war club poked out of the bag, its wooden head carved to resemble a raven.

  “Thanks!” Melisande grinned as she found her deerskin clothes and other possessions inside. She slung the bandolier over her shoulder and then dug out her moccasins and tobacco. “You thought of everything, girl.”

  Kaitlin went on. “The tunnel we just came out of leads to an exit on the northeastern shore of the island. I’ve hidden a rowboat there. Take it and row to the northern shore of the lake. You can hide in the ruins of Carthage. I’ll try to get Johnny and Ethan. If I succeed, we can look for another way off the island. But at least if I fail, you two…”

  “Will be right beside you,” said Melisande. “Because there’s no chance I’m rowing away and leaving you at the mercy of Old Scruffy.”

  “Aye. Hear, hear,” added Declan.

  “You don’t understand.” Kaitlin turned her head, the light of the brazier falling on her haunted expression. “He’s more dangerous than you can imagine.”

  “Where’s this ‘Red Hart’ Papa Sully told me so much about?” said Melisande. “The one that got her da out of a quarry? Saved her mother from slavery? She wouldn’t be mewling like a kitten. You need Scruffy out of his tower so you can get our boys back. Am I right?”

  “Aye, that’s the way of it.”

  “Then all we need,” said Melisande, pressing a pinch of tobacco under her lip, “is a little distraction.” She flashed a mischievous grin. “There’s nothing I’m better at. Lead the way, Lil Red.”