The Merchant of Dreams (17 page)

Coby woke from a dream in which she was wrestling shadowy figures who jabbered incomprehensibly at her, only to discover it was not a dream. The skraylings seized her arms and legs, pinning her to the matting. She screamed, as much in fury as in terror, and kicked out. The grip on her right leg momentarily loosened, and she lashed out again. This time her foot connected with the skrayling’s jaw, sending him tumbling across the matting onto the deck.

“Hendricks?”

It was Gabriel’s voice.

Before she could answer him she was cuffed around the temple and her head snapped sideways, making her gasp and retch at the pain.

“Silence!”

She licked her lips and looked around for the speaker. In the shadowy confines of the hold, the tattooed faces looked too alike for her to distinguish individuals. What was this nightmare? Why had the skraylings turned on them?

The sailors hauled her to her feet and bound her hands in front of her. She could see Gabriel now, standing calmly defiant between his captors, his fair hair in disarray and a smear of blood across his chin.

“What…?”

A hand clamped over her mouth, rough fingers smelling of seaweed and tar.

“I say silent, you are silent,” a voice growled in her ear. “See you it?”

She nodded as best she could.

“Good.”

The voice barked orders in Vinlandic, and the captives were pushed out of their shelter into the blinding gaze of the sun.

They removed the sack, and Erishen spat pita fibres, blinking in the dim dusty light of the hold.

“What is this, Hennaq? Where are you taking me?”

He was tied to the main mast where it penetrated the hull, hands bound before him and ropes around his ankles, knees, hips and chest so that he could scarcely move. Beyond Hennaq, he could see the girl and the actor being helped down the ladder.

“Leave my English friends out of this,” he said. “If any offence has been caused, I will bear the responsibility alone.”

“It is a little late to take responsibility, Erishen.” The captain leant close, hissing his name in his face. Erishen resisted the urge to return the gesture. Without fangs, it would be about as threatening as a child sticking out his tongue.

“Responsibility for what?” he said instead.

“You don’t remember, do you?”

“There are many things I do not remember.”

“I was but a boy when you first came to England, in proper shape–” Hennaq looked him up and down disdainfully “–and told the council how you were going to find our kin, stolen by the Birch Men long ago. I thought it a fool’s errand, even then, but my heart-mate Tanijeel…”

Hennaq stood silent for a long moment, staring at something in his hand. Erishen grasped at the name, sought it amongst his shattered memories, but found nothing. The captain cleared his throat.

“Tanijeel was smitten with you: one of the oldest of our kind, who had walked with the stolen ones and spoken with the Birch Men, come to our humble settlement in a far-off land! He wanted to accompany you on your quest, but you would have none of it. He was heartbroken.”

Erishen remembered now. A young man of perhaps eighteen or twenty summers, judging by the extent of his clan-marks, with bright eyes and a breathless enthusiasm that reminded him all too much of Kiiren.

“It was too dangerous.”

Hennaq laughed sharply. “In that at least, you were correct.”

“What happened?”

Hennaq stared at him, golden eyes full of hatred. “When you did not return, he went looking for you. The first time, when he came back empty-handed, I thought that would satisfy him. But he never gave up. The last time he went looking, he did not come back.”

A sick feeling twisted Erishen’s guts. “When was this?”

“Eleven years ago.” Hennaq’s eyes narrowed. “Why do you ask?”

“No reason. What did you mean, you’ve changed your mind about our destination?”

Hennaq smiled. “I’m taking you home, honoured one. To Vinland.”

“Vinland? What about my
amayi
? He is your cousin–”

“And many miles away. No. Too many have died already on this quest of yours.”

Hennaq carefully unfastened the top two buttons of Erishen’s doublet and loosened the neck of his shirt, then took something out of the pouch at his waist and held it up for Erishen to see.

“We found this in your baggage.” He unfastened the spirit-guard and reached around behind Erishen’s neck. “I cannot let you roam free.”

“No!”

Coby did not struggle as they tied her to one of the upright timbers that supported the deck. The last thing she wanted was for them to bind her so tightly she had no chance of escape. But escape from a ship in the middle of the ocean required planning, and planning required time and a clear head.

To her relief Gabriel appeared to have come to the same conclusion, and was meekly standing against his post whilst the skraylings fetched another length of rope. Somewhere behind them, Sandy was talking to the captain and it didn’t sound good. The captain was angry and upset by turns, and Sandy kept asking him questions, or so she guessed from his tone of voice. But if the captain was not interrogating his prisoner, what was he up to? Why bring them all this way, if he was not their ally? They must be near the coast of Africa by now…

She swallowed against the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach, and glanced at Gabriel. Two healthy young people, fair of hair and skin, would fetch a high price in the slave markets of Moorish Africa. But on the other hand a shipful of skraylings was worth a hundred times that. Surely their captors would not risk enslavement themselves, just for the money they could get for her and Gabriel. Not if the reaction of the crew they had found on Corsica was anything to go by. It must be something else, then; something to do with Sandy and Kiiren and skrayling politics. Quite what, though, she could not fathom.

The skraylings finished tying them up and departed with their captain. Coby called out to Sandy, but he didn’t respond. Maybe the captain had gagged him, or fed him a sleeping draught to keep him quiet. She realised she had no idea how the skraylings dealt with their prisoners. They did not seem like a cruel people, and yet she had heard some blood-curdling stories of the New World, of human sacrifice and mutilation. If the skraylings inscribed their flesh with needles for mere decoration, what might they not do to their enemies?

“Hendricks?”

She turned at the sound of her name. Gabriel grinned at her, his face a mask of blood, bruises and shadows. No, the skraylings would not have been so rough if they had intended to sell their human passengers to slavers. She took a sliver of comfort from the thought.

“You’re not badly hurt?” she asked Gabriel.

“I gave as good as I got. You?”

“The same. I’m not sure about Sandy, though. He’s been silent since the captain left.”

She craned her neck. Sandy was trussed up tighter than his companions, and by the looks of it only the ropes held him upright. His head lolled forward, his features slack and eyes closed.

“Have you any idea why we’ve been taken prisoner?” Gabriel asked.

She shook her head. “It makes no sense. If the captain isn’t our friend, why did he bring us all this way? Did he change his mind?”

“He could be taking us somewhere else.”

“But where? Not Africa. I’ve seen for myself how much the skraylings fear slavery.”

“Spain, then. You and I both work for Walsingham; I am sure King Philip would pay a bounty for the likes of us.”

Coby shuddered. “They’d torture us for information.”

“I dare say they would.”

“You aren’t afraid?”

“Terrified, to be frank. But we’re not betrayed to the Spanish yet, so there’s no point worrying about it, is there?”

“I wish I could be so sanguine.”

The deck above them trembled with the passage of footsteps, and dust sifted down, sparkling in the thin beams of sunlight that pierced the planking. The captain shouted orders, and the entire vessel creaked and groaned as it shifted to starboard.

“What? Why are we heading west?” Coby cried out.

“West? Are you sure?” Gabriel looked around. “Perhaps we’re turning back for England.”

“Perhaps.” It was a thin hope at best. “I think I can get out of my bonds. Mal’s taught me a few tricks in the last year, and I have one or two of my own.”

“Such as?”

She strained to look around. “I’d rather not say out loud. We can’t be sure who’s listening.”

“Good point.”

“Anyway, there’s no use our getting free until we have a plan.”

“And do you have one of those?”

“Alas, no.”

Sandy sagged against his bonds, his stomach churning, though whether that was revulsion at the memories flooding his mind, or just the usual disorientation he felt whenever he put a spirit-guard on, he could not decide. Perhaps a mix of both. What had the captain said the young skrayling’s name was? Daniel, or something like it. And Daniel had gone into the lion’s den and not come out.

It had been a winter’s night, eleven years ago, when Sandy and Mal had been woken by their elder brother Charles and taken on a midnight ride across the hills with the Huntsmen. A ride that ended in fire and mutilation and murder, an act intended to strike fear into the hearts of the skraylings and ensure they never ventured outside their enclave again. It was also the initiation of the two brothers into that secret order, against their will.

His memories blurred into a parade of images as unreal as the flickering shapes seen in a fire: distorted faces leering at him, candlelight that burned his eyes, houses flashing past the window of a coach… and through it all, the memory of the skrayling’s cries of agony. He had not recognised him as the boy from the council meeting, of course – the trauma of rebirth had locked most of Erishen away in the depths of his mind –but seeing Tanijeel tortured and murdered by the Huntsmen had broken through the scars. Now the wounds bled afresh and he wept with guilt and grief. Hennaq was right. Too many had died already, and it was all his fault.

CHAPTER XII

They had fought off the corsairs, but it was a Pyrrhic victory. Nearly a third of the crew were either dead or so badly injured that their lives hung in the balance, and few had escaped unscathed. Every man who could walk and use at least one hand found himself doing double watches, including Mal and Ned. As far as possible they were given the simplest tasks: hauling on the sheets under the guidance of more experienced sailors, tending the wounded, fetching and carrying anything that was needed by Raleigh or the crew.

Unfortunately the ship’s carpenter was one of the casualties, and without him the crew were able to make only the most basic repairs. The stern was the highest priority, and by the end of the first day after the attack the rear wall of the captain’s cabin had been cobbled back together, enough to keep out the worst of the wind and sea should they hit a storm. However they had to break up most of the remaining bunk-beds for planking, so Raleigh moved into the forward cabin and Mal and Ned joined the common sailors below. There was plenty of space now that so many of the crew were gone, but with the moans of the dying echoing up from the hold and only a few unbroken lanterns left to light the pitch darkness, the lower decks might as well have been some forgotten corner of Hell.

“What now?” Ned asked one morning, as he and Mal squatted on coils of rope in the shade of the mizzenmast, stealing a moment’s rest between errands. He stretched out his legs, knowing that his aching feet would be even more painful once he stood up again, but the chance of a respite was too good to resist.

“Raleigh’s set a course for Sardinia,” Mal replied, staring off into the distance.

“Where’s that?”

Mal shook out a length of rope and arranged it in the rough outline of the Mediterranean.

“We were about here when the corsairs attacked,” he said, pointing to a spot well north of the African coast, “and Sardinia is here, halfway between France and Italy. It’s not too far out of our way, at least.”

“You don’t sound very happy about it.”

“Sardinia is ruled by Spain. Even if we can recruit more crew there, can we trust them?”

“Do we have a choice?”

Mal shook his head. “Another corsair attack, and we’re dead. Raleigh will never surrender to slavers.”

“Is that likely?” Ned asked.

Mal didn’t answer. Ned swallowed past a sudden tightness in his throat. He’d known this voyage would be dangerous, but until now he hadn’t understood just how great that danger might be. And if he died here at sea, so far from home, how long would it take for the news to reach Gabriel? Gabriel, whose face he might never see again… He felt tears prick his eyes, and cleared his throat noisily in an attempt to force them away.

“Come on,” Mal said, scrambling to his feet. “No use in fretting about what may never happen. We have work to do.”

The
Falcon
limped into Cagliari harbour two days later, her crew capable of raising only the faintest of cheers. Mal paused for a moment on his way to the rail, and then slumped back onto the fo’c’s’le stair, his blistered hands falling into his lap. A moment later Ned slithered down the stair behind him and clapped him on the shoulder.

“Soon be back on dry land,” he said, his voice as raw as Mal’s palms.

“You’ll have to winch me ashore,” Mal groaned, leaning his cheek against the rough planking. “And hire a wheelbarrow, to tip me into bed.”

By the time they weighed anchor Mal had rallied somewhat, and was persuaded to gather his belongings and stagger down the gangplank with the rest of the crew. They followed Raleigh across the too-bright quay and through winding streets to an inn, where they were shown into a courtyard filled with tables and benches. Mal sagged onto a bench at Ned’s side, and laid his head down on folded arms. He could swear the cobblestones were rolling underfoot like waves. It felt like only a moment later when someone shook him awake.

“Mal? Supper.”

He raised his head. The courtyard was half in shadow, and though his shirt had dried on his back as he slept, his shoes and stockings were still damp and stiff with salt water. He straightened up and rubbed a hand over his sunburned face. Someone had mentioned supper?