The Bonemender's Choice (10 page)

“Least I can do. Do you want to talk it through or leave it till morning? They say dark dreams fare better in daylight.”

Gabrielle nodded into his chest. “Could you sit with me a while, do you think? There isn’t really any room for you, but...”

They did find a hazy sort of sleep, eventually, slumped side by side against the wall with Féolan’s legs trailing onto the floor. And that was how Yolenka found them, in the narrow shafts of light that brought morning to the captain’s cabin.

“Good day, little lovebirds! Time to wake up your eyes!”

The voice was amused, brash and worlds away from any dark dream. Gabrielle opened her eyes to a wide knowing grin.

“Is good you are healer. You are two pained necks and twisted-up backs today, yes?”

S
OMETHING WAS WRONG
With Luc.

Turga’s rejection of their offer had been devastating, yet Madeleine did not sink back into the dull despair that had sucked at her when she first realized their fate. They had made a good try, something with a real chance of success. If one was possible, why not another? And if the children had been able to think up
a worthwhile plan, who was to say their father could not do so as well? It was a slim enough hope, but Madeleine was determined to keep hold of it.

Luc, though, became tense and silent. They had come to rely on the older boy, Madeleine realized; his sturdy friendship helped them cope with everything from seasickness to runaway fear. But that night he did not speak a word or even look at them. He paced and scratched until bedtime, and then twitched and muttered through the long black hours. Madeleine awoke in the morning—what passed for morning in the shadowy hold—to find Luc sitting propped against the bulkhead with his arms wrapped round his knees, his face set, eyes starey and wild.

“Luc, what is it?” She wondered if he would answer, or even hear her.

“I won’t be any man’s slave!” The words burst out of him, hot and emphatic. He shook his head, underlining his refusal. “I can work hard; it ain’t that. I been on my pa’s boat since I could pull up a crab trap. But to be owned like a dog, beaten or fed at another man’s say-so...no. No, I’d rather be dead.”

“But, Luc—” Madeleine closed her mouth. He didn’t need her to point out that they weren’t being offered a choice.

“I’m going to escape, Maddy.” He leaned forward, serious and intent. “Soon as we land, first chance I get, I’m taking off.”

“I am too!” Matthieu was sitting up, hair tousled from his blankets, face shining with enthusiasm.

“Good,” Luc agreed. “We should all three go together. It will take them more by surprise, and there’s a better chance of at least one getting away.”

Madeleine looked at Matthieu’s eager features, and her heart
sank. Luc’s talk made Matthieu feel courageous and strong, and that was better than helplessness, she knew that. But she knew too that their brave escape plans would soon butt up against reality. And reality was this: If, by some remote miracle, they managed to get away from Turga’s army of pirates without being killed or recaptured, they would be lost in a foreign land, with no idea where to go and no way to speak to a soul. They might as well plan to sprout wings and fly.

T
HE LAST TRACES
of daylight lent a sheen to the waters of Baskir harbor as the ship eased slowly toward the wharf. Turga took no pleasure in the golden evening. He far preferred to make harbor before midday, with time to unload his cargo and get it safely stored and under guard before his crew got their pay and shore leave. He was not about to unload a ship in the dark; it was far too difficult to track the goods, too tempting for the men to pilfer as they worked. And he knew the limits of leadership better than to try to keep the men on board through the night after two months at sea.

No, the cargo would have to stay on board, with a few hand-picked and well-paid men to guard it. The others would tumble off the ship and into the town, hungry for drink and food and women, and be in poor shape for work on the morrow.

There would be no drunken revels for Turga nor women either, until they reached his stronghold. A man did not stay warlord long by dropping his trousers in a rival’s territory. Grindor grew rich off Baskir’s trade and would not discourage visiting merchants by indulging in outright robbery—but what happened in the streets at night was another matter.

He let his thoughts play over the plunder he had piled in the ship’s belly. A disappointing haul, he would have said, but for the children. Those last two had been a lucky find, and the news of their royalty even luckier. Were they bluffing? No matter, Turga decided. Bathe and dress that girl properly, and with her glorious hair and startling round eyes she would look every inch the foreign princess.

M
ATTHIEU HAD CURLED
into his ragged blanket and fallen asleep soon after their evening meal. Madeleine was thinking about joining him—they all felt weak and tired now, worn out from the toxic mix of fear and inactivity. When she was sleeping, she could forget about the itching and the smell and the constant gnawing upset in her stomach.

Then they heard orders called out from the deck above, a flurry of hurried footsteps overhead, the crackle of flapping sail, and the ship suddenly slowed. Luc’s head pricked up like a hound on scent.

“They’re trimming the sails.”

“What does that mean?”

“They’re reducing the amount of sail so the ship goes slower,” he explained. “Taking some right down, or maybe folding ‘em up smaller. It’s for rough weather, or...”

His eyes, scared now under his rough bangs, met hers. “Or for coming into harbor.”

Madeleine’s belly became a live thing with teeth and claws, icy and hot and liquid. The fetid air was too thick to breathe—her chest heaved with the effort of drawing it in, but even so she was choked and dizzy. All this time, the deepest part of her had not believed it would come to this—that she would actually arrive in this hostile land, be torn away from her brother, exist only to
serve the whim of the highest bidder. Now the pretense crumpled, and the scrape of the oars being fitted into the oarlocks, the jerky rhythm of their strokes, underscored her terror. This was no dream. Her father had not come. Time had run out.

Then Luc’s arms were around her, strong despite the quaver in his own voice. “There, Maddy. There now.”

She wrapped her arms tight and clung on. But though the comfort of his lean warmth helped her breath come easier, the swirling thoughts would not still: She would never see her mama grow old, never see Sylvain grow to a man. Never see the sun rise over the Avine River or ride through the Chênier hills. Never have a boyfriend or husband of her own, but only masters who—

Madeleine raised her head and fixed Luc with blue eyes that blazed with equal parts fear and determination.

“Luc—kiss me.”

“
What
say?” Luc’s shock would have made her laugh in a happier time and place. Not now. She was fierce with urgency.

“I mean it. Just one time I want to kiss a boy because I choose to. Because I like him, not because he bought me. Please—”

She didn’t have to ask again. His lips were chapped—hers too—and they both stank. She didn’t care. They kissed each other for a long time, tenderly, sadly, and when they drew apart the scrabbly panic had receded. It was still there, but so was her own strength.

She took a deep breath and stepped back. “I better wake Matthieu.”

T
HE SHIP MADE
berth in a flurry of commands and brisk activity. The children listened and waited, their tension ratcheting tighter
minute by minute. They had hated this ship, but now they were terrified to leave it. When the men began pouring down the hatch-ways, they were sure they would be taken—but no one so much as glanced their way. The crew were busy at their bunks—rummaging through their kits, stuffing purses with coin, donning bright neck scarves or less filthy tunics—and then they were gone. Night and silence descended on the ship.

“Will they just leave us here?” asked Madeleine.

“Maybe just till morning,” suggested Luc. “The men—”

“The men have gone drinking.” Matthieu jumped in, relieved, Madeleine saw, to have some diversion for his mind. “Remember what Uncle Tristan told us, Maddy, that the harbor tavern keepers were happy when Tarzine ships arrived? They always eat and drink lots—”

Matthieu’s voice stopped abruptly and he turned away, his shoulders hunched as though fending off a blow. Madeleine understood. Matthieu adored his uncle, hung on his every word and exploit. With the mere mention of his name, Tristan had sprung as vividly into her mind as if he stood in the cramped cell beside them, and with him came all the other people she loved and longed for. Then they crumbled to dust and were gone.

It was hot below decks—they were on land again in high summer, and the deepening night was thick and muggy. It was late when Madeleine fell into uneasy half-sleep, later still when a commotion on deck jolted her awake, her heart tripping like a frightened bird’s. But it was not morning—the open hatchways were black still—and no one came for them. Now and then a group of men made their way to the berths by lamp or torchlight, rummaged with their things and climbed back up the hatches.
The men were silent and their faces, when the flames caught them, were grim.

She shook the boys awake. “Something’s happening.”

Angry words sounded on deck, a proper tongue-lashing to hear it, and shouted commands, a flurry of footsteps, the scrape of oars in the oarlocks. The ship moved, almost imperceptibly at first and then in the jerky rhythm of hard rowing. Some time later, they heard the crinkle and flap of sails unfurling, and then felt the ship list as the night breeze tugged at the sails.

“We’re heading out,” Luc muttered. “I don’t get it.” He was a voice in the blackness, nothing more.

Madeleine’s mind was doing a complicated skittish dance, circling around the flare of hope that she was afraid to grab hold of.

But Matthieu did it for her. “He changed his mind, that Turga. What else could it be? He’s taking us back home for ransom. That’s why the crew’s mad—they thought they were getting a holiday, and now they’re back to work!” His hand groped for hers, caught it, squeezed hard. She squeezed back, unable to speak around the hard ball of tears that had grown in her throat. She wanted so badly for Matthieu to be right. But she knew too much now, and she didn’t believe it.

I
T HAD NOT
yet been fully dark when Turga’s first mate, Zhirak, had returned to the ship, his expression uneasy. “It’s bad, boss. Half of Baskir’s closed up—Grindor just ordered the plague flags hung out. It’s the Gray Veil, spreading fast if you believe the wenches at Puka’s. Of course,
he’d
be open for business if the place was on fire.”

Turga cursed, his mind already racing ahead.

“The auction?”

“Closed. You know it hits young ones the worst. They don’t even want ‘em in the holding pens. No one will buy a slave that might spread sickness through the house and be dead in a week.”

Children made up more than half of most auction offerings. Buyers considered them more trainable than adults, and better value in terms of potential years of service. But Zhirak was right— in this particular circumstance, youth was a liability.

“Bring the men back.” There was no time to lose. Turga had seen the Veil at work long ago, seen his small brother whistle and gasp to breathe around the evil coating that spread over the back of his throat and filled up his tiny airways. The lad had lived, but plenty in their village had not.

“Sir? They’re all over town by now.”

“Find them!” The command was roared. “Take the three who came back with you and the two above-deck guards and scour the town. Haul their arses back to the ship, and demon-fire take you if you fail.”

The startled men scrambled toward the catwalk.

They would sail to Rath Turga at first light and keep the children there until the epidemic died down and the markets reopened. And he would promise gold to his own patron god, the axe-wielder Kiar, if the Great Hewer would only ensure that no invisible unwanted guest came aboard with the returning crew.

T
URGA’S STRONGHOLD WAS AN IMPRESSIVE SIGHT.
The deep bay was nearly a lagoon, so tightly did the two craggy outcrops of land enclose it. The children did not see the ship’s journey through those straits, but they heard the braying horns that announced Turga’s arrival.

This time they were taken off the ship soon after it nudged up to the quay. Matthieu fought to keep hold of Madeleine, but they were pried apart by the three burly pirates who came for them. The bright morning stabbed at his eyes and made them water as he was thrust through the hatch and into the light—yet to feel the warm sun beating down and breathe sweet air again was lovely beyond belief. He squinted up at the massive building that brooded over the harbor.

It seemed to grow out of the high cliff it was built upon, a squat, nearly windowless hulk of red stone enclosed by a matching wall. Smaller than Castle DesChênes, it was a good deal more imposing. It did not seem like a place where anyone would live.

“It’s a fortress, Maddy,” Matthieu breathed, impressed despite his fear. “Like in the general’s stories of the old heroes.” Before she could answer they were pulled along, off the ship and along the jetty to a broad, hard-packed dirt road that skirted wide of the cliff-face and then snaked uphill to Turga’s stronghold.

It was a long climb up to the fortress. The children were kept in single file, each escorted by a guard and flanked by the handful of crew members who were not assigned to unloading the ship. The sun was hot on Matthieu’s head and back, though it was not yet midmorning. The land that stretched out beyond the road had a dry, baked look, the vegetation sparse and dusty. Walking felt strange after so long at sea, and Matthieu’s legs tired quickly. Even the guards, he noticed, were breathing hard by the time they were halfway to the gate. Luc stumbled in front of him, loose stones and dust spilling down from the scrape of his shoe. The guard, who had let go of Luc’s arm to avoid falling himself, bent over to help the boy up. But Luc twisted around, kicked out hard to the pit of the guard’s stomach and was on his feet and running into the brush.