The Bonemender's Choice (8 page)

“Dominic, it’s our best chance.” Tristan’s hand, steadying on his shoulder.

“This captain, he lost ship and two fingers to Turga,” said Yolenka. “Maybe is not honest—but he has no love for pirates. He say you kill Turga is good, save him more trouble.”

“This isn’t about killing Turga!” protested Dominic. “It’s about saving my children.”

“Sure.” Yolenka’s shoulders rippled and flexed in an elaborate shrug. “But captain can believe what he likes.”

Her golden eyes flashed as she took charge of the little gathering and laid out her plan. “You cannot go in with army big enough to overpower a warlord on his own ground. Is no possible. Must have small group, secret in purpose.

“I go,” she announced, “to speak for you. As guide. I am traveling dancer.” Yolenka raised her arms above her head and began a languid sinuous shimmy that left every man in the room gaping. She caught their expressions and sneered.

“Is whore dancing,” she said dismissively. “Takes no skill. They like this in badlands.”

“I bet they do,” breathed Tristan, earning himself a swift elbow in the ribs from Rosalie.

“So,” said Yolenka, “who else comes?”

Dominic stepped in front of Tristan, cutting off his broth-er’s eager step forward.

“I do.”

“You are father, is certain you go. Who else?”

Not Justine or Tristan, it turned out, though both wished to. Tristan was reined in sharply by his mother: “You are the Regent of Crow Island and the Blanchette Coast, which is currently subject to frequent pirate attack. Your duty lies here with the defense of the coast.” Justine was dissuaded more
gently, by the specter of a mishap that might leave little Sylvain orphaned.

Derkh, announcing, “You aren’t going over there without me,” was met by a brilliant flash of teeth.

“You know to make weapons?” asked Yolenka.

“Of course.”

“Is perfect. You sell weapons and jewelwork—get rich from Turga himself!”

Dominic looked up quizzically. That was a bit much, asking a blacksmith to masquerade as a jewelry craftsman. How would they maintain that charade?

Yolenka caught his look. “What?” Her gaze bored into him, sharp as a bird of prey.

“Yolenka.” Derkh laid a hand on her arm, smoothing ruffled feathers. “Dominic doesn’t know I make jewelry, that’s all. I haven’t really told anyone.”

Now the sharp gaze swiveled over to Derkh, the eyebrows raised in disbelief. “You hide this in cellar, why? Is gift you have!” She fingered her necklace, lifting the bronze and gold centerplate so it caught the light. “He make this. I sell twenty of these in one day in Tarzine market, easy. Lucky I tell him bring his pieces to sell in Blanchette.”

They had no time to wonder at this revelation. Gabrielle asked to go in case the children were hurt and was welcomed into the little band as a seller of remedies and stitcher of wounds.

“Charms, too, is very good,” suggested Yolenka.

Féolan was accepted as a musician, though he would have to work with Yolenka on ship to learn a suitable accompaniment to her dance style.

The problem of Dominic’s disguise stumped them. He was soon to be king of Verdeau and had never before felt inadequate to any task, but now he seemed the only one in the room who could not boast of some special talent.

“Is no matter,” assured Yolenka. “We think on ship.”

She surveyed their little band. “Five. Is good number, not too big. Is anyone else must come?” she asked Dominic.

He considered, shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

“We add just one more then,” she announced. “Fighter. Bodyguard. Women go into badlands, they need strong protection—especially whore dancers. And we need good fighter, maybe, to help steal back children.”

Derkh’s pale face flushed. “You have us—that’s what we are going for, to fight!”

Yolenka’s look, fond but dismissive, did nothing to bring down his color. “You are strong and brave, yes. But we need fighter with training, man who can meet Turga’s best.”

It was Tristan who spoke up. “Yolenka, if you think we need more men, I can assign as many as you like. But if you are looking for better fighters, you won’t find them—not in Verdeau. Derkh was personally trained by the commander of his country’s military, and Féolan is faster with blade and bow than anyone I ever saw. Each of these men has saved my life. Together with my brother, there is no one I would trust more in a battle.”

Yolenka swept her eyes over them, reappraising, lingering over Derkh. At last she nodded.

“Then, no. Smaller is better, I think. Unless you want more?” She turned to Dominic, acknowledging, if grudgingly, that this was really his venture.

He shook his head slowly. “No, not knowing the country, I will trust to your judgment. And you are right: a smaller group can travel with less notice.

“Which brings me to the next problem. How on earth will we know where he has taken them?”

“I know where he takes them.” Yolenka’s voice was flat, her face grim and still. The amber eyes when they met Dominic’s had lost their fierce pride. He read pity there, and old pain, and felt a bolt of fear for his babies.

“He takes them to Baskir,” Yolenka announced. “To slave auction.”

W
HEN ALL ARE HOME SAFE,
we will celebrate something better than an old woman’s birthday.”
When
, not
if
. The quiet courage and optimism of the word was exactly what Dominic had learned to expect from his mother. Solange would never admit the specter of failure, not while she had the least scrap of hope. Certainly not at this dockside farewell.

She does look old, thought Dominic. Had a bad night, despite the brave face. Solange’s features were drawn and sallow, the age lines harsher in the morning light than was usual.

Well, they were all of them getting older. Justine liked to tease Dominic about the grizzle at his temples and beard, but to be honest he hardly noticed the changes in her. Only when Gabrielle came to visit—Gabrielle, who looked as fresh and willowy as she had at twenty—did he really see the march of time through his family. How strange it must be for her, he thought, to watch us wither.

Dominic gave himself a mental shake. He was a practical man, no philosopher, and he was not withered yet. It was time to set sail.

Gabrielle was already making her good-byes with the women. Dom turned first to Tristan.

“It’s killing me not to come with you—you know that, right?” Tristan’s hard grip on Dominic’s forearm underlined his words. “Just say the word, and I’m on board.”

Dominic hesitated. There was nothing he would like better than to have his brother at his side. But more than defending the coast was at stake. Dominic knew that Solange was thinking about the kingship too, when she insisted Tristan remain behind. She would not talk about bad outcomes, but she would plan for them nonetheless, because she was queen. If they were killed in this attempt—and they might well be—then Verdeau would still have a worthy heir to the throne.

Dominic shook his head. “This one’s mine, Tris. But I’ll miss you, brother.”

Then it was Justine. After fifteen years together, few words were needed.

“Bring them home, Dom,” she whispered as he held her close.

“I will,” he promised. High spirits help him, he was sailing blind into an unknown land with a dancing girl as his guide, but he held his promise as an oath. He would return with his children—or not at all.

N
IGHT WAS COMING
on again. Madeleine’s throat tightened into a hard knot at the thought. Evil as their days were, it was the nights that she feared. When the blackness closed down upon them, the crawling endless hours eating at their courage, the hope in her heart shredded away like mist.

Was this their sixth night? It didn’t seem to matter anymore. They had been at sea long enough that Madeleine could find grim
amusement at how horrified she had been at the rusty bucket in the corner of their cell, which served as a communal toilet. She had not thought she would ever be able to relieve herself in full view of a strange boy—not until the cramping took her and her bowels, loosened by fear and the brackish water that was their only drink, decided the matter for her. The three children had all filled the hold with the reek of their waste, sharing the shame of it as they shared the itch of bed lice and the wretched food that two days’ hunger had taught her to eat.

By day they talked, they helped each other, they argued. Each kept up a brave front for the others. They learned to make the long hours pass with Matthieu’s riddles or Madeleine’s retelling of their favorite childhood stories—even lessons from Luc on the parts of a ship and fishing methods. They learned too, to avoid talk of home, the memories that sapped their strength and left them in helpless tears. At night, though, Madeleine was alone. They were each alone. She felt Matthieu’s back pressed against hers, and held him when he cried in the dark, but she couldn’t beat back the black shadow that enclosed him. She heard Luc sometimes too, snuffling and gasping, trying to hide his weeping.

The ship lurched—an alarming sideways yaw that was replicated exactly by Madeleine’s stomach. Matthieu groaned, his arms pressed tight around his waist. The seas had been growing rougher all day and now, it seemed, the night would bring worse. Another high-cresting climb and lurching sideslip followed the first. They landed hard, the impact jostling the three children against each other on the platform that served as bed, chair and table.

“Breathe slow and deep,” offered Luc. “Go with the roll; don’t fight it.”

Madeleine didn’t have much hope it would work. Before long, she thought, we’ll be adding the stink of vomit to this pit.

The ship screeched in protest as another wave hit, the usual creak and groan of timbers giving way to an almost human shriek.

“What was that?” yelled Matthieu. His eyes, round and wild, strained into the dim half-light. “Are we breaking up?”

“No, be easy,” said Luc. “A big ship like this ain’t worried about a hard swell—she’s just complainin’. Even our fishing boats could handle this. It’s nasty if you’re not used to it, but there’s no danger.”

No danger
. A funny choice of words.

Only today, Madeleine had learned just what kind of danger she was in. A sailor she recognized had brought their food—the one with the narrow hungry face who had stared at her on the deck. So long ago that seemed, but those foxy features were hard to forget. He had a thin mustache, she saw now, that drooped over his lip, and a tattoo snaking around his wrist from thumb to forearm. He had laid out the gruel, hard biscuit and water jug with exaggerated, mocking care on their bed platform and glanced furtively down the length of the ship’s shadowed belly.

He turned to her then, sidled up until she was pressed against the curved sidewall of the cell. His tattooed hand reached out and grasped her curls—dirty curls they were now, but as bright and tumbled as ever—fingering them slowly, luxuriously, his lips spreading into an avid leer. She tried to shrink away, but there was nowhere to go.

“Get off her!” Luc shouted at the man—she heard Matthieu’s shrill voice as well—and both boys rushed at the pirate. Matthieu
grabbed at him from behind, trying to pull him backward, but Luc came in from the side, landing a hard blow in the crook of the man’s arm that jerked it down and away from Madeleine’s face. The tattooed fist opened, releasing her, and with a roar of anger the pirate rounded on Luc and struck. Madeleine saw blood streaming down Luc’s chin, saw the pirate fling Matthieu like a ragdoll into his bunk, and didn’t even realize she was yelling for help until a hand snaked forward and clamped over her mouth.

Luc might have suffered much worse than the split lip he now bore, Madeleine thought, if the uproar hadn’t brought a new man running. She had seen this man turn sleeping sailors out of their hammocks and allocate the stores—he was some kind of officer, if pirates had such a thing. Twice again as big as her tormentor, with great slablike hands, he plucked the man off his feet and shook him like a naughty pup. An angry harangue poured from him, with gestures to Madeleine and a knotted fist brandished to underline his point. The Fox (Madeleine put the name to him without conscious thought as she recalled all that had happened) was surly but cowed, his eyes cast down. At last the officer had all but thrown him from the cell, slammed the door and locked it from the great iron ring of keys that swung at his hip.

The children had barely spoken after that, all three shaken by a new awareness of their helplessness. Madeleine prayed that the visit they received soon after had gone over Matthieu’s head, but the memory of it gnawed at her. She understood, now, something of their fate.

The man had not bothered to come in but had addressed them through the iron rungs. “I am sent to you as I speak your tongue,” he said, the words accented and exotic-sounding, but
plain enough. He sounds like Yolenka, thought Madeleine, and the memory of their day at the docks was a flare of pain in her heart. “You”—his golden-brown eyes, almonds in a deeply tanned face, rested on Madeleine—”will not be touched. Boss say no man to have you. Worth better price at auction if you are fresh, yes?” The handsome face broke into a hard smile. “So, any man handle you, you scream loud. Yes?”

Madeleine managed a shaky nod. “Yes.”

The man nodded, then jabbed a finger at Luc. “This means you too. You take this girl, we cut your throat. Is clear?”

Not waiting for a reply, he turned on his heel and disappeared up the hatch into the bright light that spilled in from the upper deck.

Better to be seasick than to think about those words “at auction,” thought Madeleine. Better a storm to deal with, than another endless night drowning in memories and longings that did nothing but sharpen her grief. Better not to think about home.

E
ACH DAWN, THE SHIP WAS BATHED
in a dreamy orange glow as the rising sun slanted through her ochre sails. Dominic was always up to see it. The captain had given up his tiny cabin for the two women, but the men slept cheek by jowl with the crew, tucked into rope hammocks. Only Derkh seemed to find them comfortable—it was the swell and roll of the ship in high water that gave him trouble.