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  CHAPTER Three

  Blood and Water

  The white porcelain dishes, silver utensils, serving pieces and vase with four fresh day lilies greeted Cynthia with far more warmth than the stately woman seated at the other end of the breakfast table. Julia Garrison sat ramrod straight, the tiny, round mother-of-pearl buttons of her dress lined up like double rows of precisely marching soldiers, her lapels and wrist-length sleeves freshly pressed and gleaming white. Cynthia wondered how the woman breathed with her corset laced so tightly.

  Cynthia mumbled a good morning, but received no answer. Sighing softly, she straightened her napkin on her lap and started a mental count, wondering how long it would take her grandmother to start her usual tirade.

  Steam rose from her cup as Marta poured blackbrew and lightened it with cream—too much, as usual. Cynthia thanked her, downed half the cup with a suppressed grimace and snatched the pot to fill it until the color was just right. She took a hot roll from the linen-covered basket and buttered it while Marta put bowls of fresh melon and other assorted fruit before them. She took a bite of the roll—good, but not as good as Rowland’s biscuits—and chased it with a sip of blackbrew. She skewered a slice of mango and had it halfway to her mouth when the lecture started.

  “I really would like to know why you persist in this aberrant behavior, Cynthia.”

  Nineteen... twenty, she counted silently. She really must be mad this time. She usually gets to thirty. She didn’t answer aloud, knowing too well that she wouldn’t be allowed a word for at least another slow count of fifty. She just met her grandmother’s steely glare and continued eating, savoring each bite as the diatribe continued.

  “I simply don’t understand the lure of a tarnished reputation. I mean, what else do you think you’ll get from carousing around with drunken sailors and the trollops they socialize with?”

  Cynthia raised an eyebrow at that, wondering what the barmaids and serving girls she knew would do if she told them that her grandmother referred to them as trollops. No, that would be a bad idea. Likely they’d charge up the hill in battalion strength and rip the estate apart stone by stone.

  “Those types will only hurt you, Cynthia. I know the goings on down there in those seedy taverns and fleshpots! You’re lucky you haven’t ended up pregnant, diseased or sold into slavery by that rabble. The way you carry on, I swear. And with the month-end balances already overdue. Why, our creditors will be beating down the door of this house one day soon, and the only answer I’ll have for them is ‘Oh, I’m sorry. Lady Cynthia was responsible for those balances, and she felt it was more important to go out and get drunk last night than finish them.’”

  Well, that much was true, at least, but her goal for the evening had not been to get drunk. Unfortunately, her grandmother would never even try to fathom her true goals.

  “One day you’ll wake up poor and alone and with nothing but a soiled reputation and a hangover to keep you warm, Cynthia. You mark my words!” The woman finally started to wind down, raising a shaking teacup for a careful sip before continuing. “I just thank the Gods that your grandfather isn’t alive to see you act like this. Why, if he—”

  That was enough!

  “If Grandpa was alive, I’d be first mate on one of his ships by now, Grandmother!” Cynthia snapped, scraping her chair on the tiles and casting her napkin on her half-eaten breakfast. “He was a master of ships, not a dabbler in a dozen different losing investments that have never earned us a bent copper! We should sell off all that damned rubbish and lay down a half dozen new hulls, not to mention overhauling the few remaining ships you haven’t given away yet.”

  “Cynthia! I will not have that gutter language spoken in this house!” Her grandmother’s teacup rattled into its saucer, spilling amber liquid on the white linen tablecloth. “See what carousing with trash has done to you? And building new ships is far too expensive and risky a proposition to—”

  “Ships built this house, Grandmother!” Cynthia fumed, planting her hands on the table and leaning halfway over it to drive her point home. “Grandpa built what could have been an empire by now with nothing but his own skill as a sailor to start with. I don’t understand what makes you think shipping cargo is more risky than any other proposition. Ships made this family, Grandmother.”

  “No, Cynthia, ships destroyed this family!” the woman screeched, slapping her hand on the table with an impact that threatened to topple the flowers. “Ships took my daughter away from me and then my husband, and I will not let you be taken from me in the same manner!”

  “Pirates took my mother and father from us both. Pirates that Grandpa was trying to hunt down when he was lost.”

  “Your father was as much at fault as anyone in that, Cynthia,” the woman said, unaware of the daggers she thrust into her granddaughter’s soul with every word. “Orin Flaxal was nothing but a power-hungry wizard, and he had no business taking his wife and daughter out on that accursed ocean. I thank the Gods of Light that you didn’t inherit that curse from him, and that he died before he could pollute your mind with his poison! All that nonsense about the magic of the sea and suchlike.”

  As the woman’s tirade subsided, she realized the damage her words had caused. Her stony facade melted, a hand rising to cover her mouth, as if to prevent the words she’d already spoken from escaping. But it was too late.

  Cynthia stood stunned and staring as ice gripped her heart in a vice like nothing she’d ever felt. All the years her grandmother had held her tongue, all the hours of soft talk, mild scolding and lectures, and now the truth had finally come to light. The truth of why her grandmother was so intent on destroying everything her husband had spent his life building, and why she would never, ever let Cynthia go to sea.

  “Oh Cynthia, I—”

  Cynthia felt light-headed, and realized that she had been holding her breath. Never in her life had simple words hurt her so. But even as she stared back at her grandmother’s stricken features, she knew she couldn’t blame her for her misdirected hostility. All the anger and betrayal melted away. Cynthia felt only sad, empty, and even more alone than she had the day her parents died.

  “I’ll have the balances done by noon,” she said carefully, trying not to let her roiling emotions show. “I’ll take them down to the creditors myself.”

  “Cynthia, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to...” The woman’s stricken voice trailed off as her granddaughter turned and walked away without another word.

  *

  Swirling threads of crimson stained the azure water beside Captain Bloodwind’s flagship, Guillotine. Long, finned shapes cut through the eddies of blood, predatory denizens of the outer reef summoned for the occasion. The turmoil of the sharks’ passage dissipated the blood quickly, but more fell from above in a steady cadence of frenzy-inducing droplets. The tiny brains of the relentless killers registered only that food lurked somewhere in the water, and the longer they searched, the more maddened they became.

  The focus of their hunger hung some eight feet above the surface of their world, suspended from the end of the mainsail yard. The man hung before his peers, his eyes level with theirs while blood dripped from cuts in his legs. Pity found no home among the faces of the men and women he’d known, fought with, killed with, sailed with and drank with. They were pirates; all remorse had been wrung out of them. Now it was simply a matter of how quickly the end would come.

  “Some might say that this is my fault,” Bloodwind bellowed from the afterdeck of his flagship. His voice carried over the heads of the amassed throng, piercing the hiss of the waterfall that fed the sheltered cove. “To that I say, mayhap. I may have put my trust in one who was not ready to bear the burden. But as you all know, the burden was accepted freely and sealed in blood, the very blood which now summons his fate.”

  He waved a hand at the impatiently circling predators that would soon administer the pirate captain’s punishment. They had been brought here by blood and the dark sorceress standing at Bloodwind�
�s side. Instead of the crone he’d left in the caves beneath his citadel, Hydra now appeared as a beautiful young woman, dark hair and smoldering features accentuating a sensuously shaped form. Her sultry guise fooled no one, for her lifeless eyes described her true nature. As she looked at Nolak, her hunger sent chills of revulsion down the man’s spine that made the horror of being eaten alive pale by comparison.

  “Give him to me, my captain,” the creature said, her immaculate hand caressing Bloodwind’s shoulder. “His blood would serve me better than those I have summoned for you. Give him to me.”

  Bloodwind spared the sorceress a disgusted stare, and then turned back to the crowded deck. “Captain Nolak! For the crime of damaging one of my ships without just cause, and without atoning for that damage with plunder taken from your intended prey, I sentence you to death.”

  A murmur of “Death,” swept over the crowded deck, but their commander was not finished and raised a hand to forestall them.

  “However, though you failed me, you did not let your failure make you a coward. You brought my ship back to be repaired, knowing it would cost your life.” His piercing blue eyes fixed on his erstwhile captain’s, and he nodded imperceptibly. “For that, I grant you a quick death, not at the jaws of the wolves of the sea, nor at the hands of my sorceress, Hydra, but at my own.”

  The sorceress sneered in contempt as he brushed past her and took the great ballista in hand. The device, a crossbow so huge that two strong men had to crank it for loading, stood on a pedestal on the quarterdeck. It had been loaded with a piercing bolt instead of one lashed with tar-soaked rags used to fire the sails of merchant vessels. The iron tip swung around until it lined up with Nolak’s hands, then lowered until the doomed man looked straight down the wrist-thick bolt into his commander’s eyes. The former captain’s jaw tightened, his chin raised, but his eyes remained fixed upon those of the man who controlled the very last moments of his life.

  Bloodwind nodded once at the other’s stoicism, lowered the weapon until the iron tip pointed directly at the prominent scar on the pirate’s chest, and fired. Shock passed over Nolak’s features for an instant as the length of wood and iron destroyed his heart. His lifeless figure swung lazily on the end of the rope while the bolt splashed into the water some distance away.

  “Cut him loose,” Bloodwind ordered.

  One of his men leaned out with a cutlass in hand and severed the rope. The water roiled instantly with the frenzied feeding of the sharks. The turmoil lasted until one of the larger beasts took the limbless remainder in one huge gulp. Bloodwind ignored them, turning his attention back to the mass of cutthroats crowding Guillotine’s deck.

  “The Blackheart is yours, Broiful,” he told the former first mate of the damaged corsair. “Serve me better than Nolak.”

  “I will, my captain!” the man bellowed, climbing the short stair to the quarterdeck. He pulled open his tunic and knelt before Bloodwind, his face studiously firm as the older man drew a golden-hilted cutlass.

  “See that you do.” He passed the razor edge in a broad “X” centered over the man’s heart, leaving a shallow gash that would scar nicely when the man rubbed ash into the wound. “Or meet a fate worse than your former captain’s.”

  Hydra cackled in timely amusement. Broiful rose and stood beside Bloodwind, eyes front, ignoring the sickening sweet laughter of the woman-shaped thing behind him. Bloodwind raised his bloodstained sword and shouted over the crowd.

  “By this blood, I name this man Captain Broiful, commander of the corsair Blackheart! Is there anyone here who would challenge his right to that name?” The deck was silent save for the roar of falling water and the distant hammering of the workmen dismembering the broken portions of the new captain’s charge. “Good! Initiate him properly!” And with that he clapped the new captain on the back and shoved him off the raised quarterdeck and into the cheering crowd. They broke his fall and had a jug of rum to his lips before his feet touched the deck. Bloodwind laughed at their antics then turned back to his other officers and Hydra.

  “Hydra has been told to find us some prey. Go hunting,” he told the other captains, relishing the hungry grins that stretched their tanned faces.

  His captains followed the sorceress to Guilotine’s taffrail, eager to hear her counsel but wary of what lurked beneath the feminine facade. They stood out of arm’s reach, attentive but mindful that she was not what she seemed. As they spoke, the pirate lord took in the view of all he had built. Blood Bay was framed on three sides by the walls of the caldera. A wide, black sand beach stretched along the northern edge of the cove, crowded by a cobbled-up shantytown. The southern, rockier crescent of the cove supported his shipyard. His abode, little short of a palace, had been carved into the lava rock face of the caldera’s west wall.

  The pier at which Guillotine rested led up the beach to a wide stone stair and the massively pillared foyer of his home. Years of slave labor had hewn the residence out of the slumbering volcano, and the plunder of two decades of piracy had gilded it with appointments more lavish than many a king’s castle. With the entire island ringed with razor sharp coral, and the only channel into Blood Bay hidden in a twisting tangle of giant mangroves, his lair lay more secure than any walled city or fortress. He had truly made this his own private kingdom, and in it he wielded more power than any emperor or sovereign. And still, it was not enough.

  “You think they revere you, but any one of them would put a knife in you for a fist full of gold.”

  “There you are wrong, my sweetling,” he said with a predatory smile, turning to consider the slave girl’s haughty glare.

  She stood by the wheel of Guillotine, her braided leather leash looped loosely over one spoke like a horse’s rein on a light hitch. Fear had taught her to hold her tongue when others stood within hearing; fear of punishments that left no marks on her exquisite frame, but took longer to heal than fifty strokes with a lash would. He didn’t punish her for speaking her mind in private, however, for he enjoyed her caustic wit and didn’t want to quash that part of her spirit just yet. In time, she would be more than his slave.

  “Captain Nolak proved that today. He knew he would face death by coming back here, yet he did so. He could have taken Blackheart into any port in the Southern Empires and gotten a sack full of gold for her, but he came back.” He waved his hand at the now pristine waters of the cove. “And for that I gave him a much easier death than he deserved.”

  “His own crew would have killed him if he’d tried to run away.”

  “Which proves my point once again, dear Camilla.” He uncoiled the leather thong from around the wheel’s kingpin and pulled it gently until her eyes were only a hand’s breadth from his. “There is more loyalty in them than in any emperor’s hired army. They know I alone give them life and can give them death if I so choose. They do revere me, sweetling, as you should.” He caressed the exquisite line of her shoulder with his rough sailor’s fingers, but she merely averted her eyes and gazed out onto the still waters of the cove.

  “That could have been you luring the sharks to a feast today, Camilla,” he threatened, jerking the line attached to the golden collar. Her eyes snapped to his, the smoldering hatred in their depths drawing a smile to his lips. “Or perhaps I could give you to Hydra for a plaything.”

  “You wouldn’t,” she said, more confidence in her tone than fear. “Kill me and you lose more than a slave girl.”

  He jerked the braided leather again, his face contorted briefly in rage. But he did not strike her. Instead, he merely smiled his shark’s smile and said, “Right you are again, my sweetling.” Then his thick fingers caressed the golden collar at her throat. “But I think it’s time you got some more jewelry. Something truly worthy of your... slavery.”

  Her lip quivered, but she held her tongue as he pulled her along behind him, off the ship, down the pier and to the shack that housed his smithy.

  CHAPTER Four

  Mentor

  Cynthia strode from
the creditors’ offices feeling like she needed to wash her hands. She had delivered the balances before noon as promised, and endured a lecture on the importance of punctuality that consumed an hour of the afternoon. Consequently, she didn’t feel like facing her grandmother, especially after the morning’s confrontation, so she let her feet take her toward the one place where she knew she could forget the day’s tribulations.

  The smell of freshly cut timber, the pounding of hammers, the whisk of planes and the rasp of saws set her nerves tingling. She rounded the last corner and found herself grinning up at the dripping bulk of the Latharnia. Cynthia stood and watched in fascination as scrapers removed a thin dusting of barnacles and carpenters began chiseling at the cracked planks.

  “A narrow escape from what I hear,” a slightly slurred voice said at her shoulder. A cloud of sweet smoke announced the owner’s identity more effectively than the voice, and she turned to greet the man with a smile and an outstretched hand.

  “You shouldn’t sneak up on ladies like that, Koybur,” she said, gripping his strong right hand and turning back to the damaged ship.

  “When you’re marked like me, Cyn, sneakin’s the only way you can get close to a lady.”

  That drew a derisive snort from Cynthia, but the statement was accurate enough, even if meant in jest. Koybur was not just marked; he was maimed. The entire left side of his body from his scalp to his toes had been burned so badly it had left him a veritable wreck. One eye was missing and his left hand hung in a twisted hook of scar tissue. He walked stiffly, dragging one foot slightly, but his good eye saw as sharply as any eagle’s and there was nothing wrong with his mind. He’d smoked the same sweet-smelling pipe for as long as Cynthia had known him, and could tap it out, refill it and light it all one-handed while carrying on with instructions on how to lash this or tie that. Cynthia felt a kinship to the old sailor, perhaps from their long acquaintance, and perhaps because Koybur had received his injuries the very day Cynthia’s parents were killed.