A Distant Magic (6 page)

Tano returned and halted to stare at the girl. "Captain?"

"She is the daughter of my enemy." Nikolai's resolve hardened. Fate had brought this Macrae to him, and he would not waste the gift. Later he could decide the best way to use her. For now, he must get her to his ship without being noticed.
"She's small enough to fit into one of the merchandise hampers. Bring one from
the warehouse and don't let yourself be seen."

Tano frowned at the girl before turning to obey. Nikolai studied her again, wondering how long she would be unconscious. He'd used a huge amount of power on her—thinking of Macrae had made him burn with a red rage. It was fortunate he hadn't killed her by mistake. In fact, he probably would have if she hadn't been shielded. She was a Guardian, after all. His own power was undeveloped and rigidly suppressed—except for occasions like this.

He wondered how great her power was—the shield had been quite competent. But perhaps she'd had help with it. When Macrae talked of his children, he had shown pride in his son's great talent, but had not mentioned the daughter's. Likely Jean Macrae did not have unusual magical ability, but he mustn't take that for granted. A captive Guardian mage would be dangerous.

Tano returned with one of the large wicker hampers used for packing fragile valuables. Nikolai removed the lid, then lifted Jean Macrae and folded her into the basket. She barely fit, her knees drawn up and her arms crossed on her chest like a child. Once more he felt a twinge of discomfort at what he was doing. She'd looked so sweet and innocent when she had smiled up at him, pleased to find a man who knew her father.

But all who lived were the products of their ancestors. She should have chosen hers more carefully. He dropped her fallen bonnet on top of her.

"Will she stay asleep?" Tano asked.

Nikolai touched the smooth, pale ivory of her forehead. Her consciousness was still buried deeply, but he sent more energy just in case.
"Long enough." He closed the hamper.

The next step was getting her to the ship. Nikolai would have to take her himself because of his ability to make people overlook his presence. Though he didn't become invisible, people tended to look past him.
"I'll carry her out through the public door. Stay here to let me back in. Then
we'll complete our business and leave from the warehouse side, so no one will
know that I left and returned."

Tano nodded and lifted the handle at one end of the hamper. Together they carried it to the public door, then Nikolai took over. Though the Macrae chit wasn't heavy, the hamper was awkward. Luckily, the
Justice
was moored nearby. After his prisoner was locked in the mate's cabin, he returned to the Fontaine emporium and finished his purchases, his face impassive.

As soon as the last container was stowed, the ship sailed, blessed by a timely tide. The gods favored his quest, it seemed.

Jean's disappearance was noted at midday, when Monsieur Fontaine sought her out so they could return home for a luncheon. Her baskets of goods were found, but no trace of her remained. The warehouse and showroom were searched, residents of the waterfront neighborhood questioned with increasing desperation, but to no avail. Miss Jean Macrae, a gently bred young lady of Scotland, had vanished without a trace.

Chapter
SEVEN

A
DIA ON THE
M
IDDLE
P
ASSAGE

The Slave Coast fortress that held the captives was the largest, most impressive building Adia had ever seen, but it was the gateway to hell. A narrow door, just wide enough to accommodate one person at a time, allowed chained lines of slaves to pass through to the ship. As she shuffled through the door, Adia knew in her bones that she would never see her homeland again.
Please don't leave me, Grandmother, even though I'm leaving Africa.

As always when she asked her grandmother for help, she felt a gentle touch in her heart. Though that response was wordless, Adia's mind turned the feeling into words in her grandmother's dearly remembered voice.
I won't, child. I will always be with you.

Her grandmother's spirit gave her the dogged determination needed to survive. The voyage was an endless horror beyond anything she had ever imagined. Perhaps one in five of the slaves died during the passage. Once three men broke free and jumped overboard, seeking escape in the only way available to them.

Two succeeded. The third was dragged back to life by sailors who pursued him in a boat. Once the slave was back on board, he was whipped half to death because of his attempt to escape. Kondo, the vicious, snakelike man wielding the whip, was an African and a special aide to the captain. The fact that he was as black as she made him particularly easy to hate.

Yet even in the midst of hunger and despair, there were blessed touches of kindness. One woman in particular, a Yoruba called Fola, looked out for Adia, sleeping beside her at night and making sure that she got her share of the rancid food. Without a word being said, Adia knew that Fola's daughter had been captured and not survived the march to the coast.

Slaves were taken to the deck in small, chained groups to get fresh air. Adia thought this was wise of the captain since without these respites from the stench and disease of the slave decks, few would have survived the passage. Once she saw a crewman looking through a peculiar device made of metal. Seeing her interest, the sailor said,
"This is a quadrant, girl. It tells us where we are. Want to look through?"

"Quad-rant," she said carefully, as she accepted the instrument. She listened to the speech of the sailors whenever she could, trying to learn the language. Grandmother assured her that doing so would be of advantage later. She looked through the metal tube, startled to see the horizon and the sun set next to each other.
"Thank-you," she said as she handed back the device. Grandmother also encouraged her to be polite, because that would make people more willing to help her.

Deck outings taught her that the white sailors could be treated as badly as the black slaves. Once Adia saw the captain beat one of his sailors unconscious, wielding the whip himself. Captain Trent had blue eyes, the coldest color Adia had ever seen. The sailor was left bleeding on the deck while other crewmen brought up the bodies of slaves who had died during the night.

As the first body was thrown overboard, splashing broke out in the water. Adia saw that great finned fish were fighting for the corpse. Fola said emotionlessly,
"Sharks follow the slave ships," and put her arm around Adia's trembling shoulders.

Adia's only escape was in her dreams. Sometimes she was back in the valley with her family, laughing and happy and well fed. Other times she saw herself grown and in a distant land, happy again, though the future was so unclear that she saw no detail of what might produce happiness. Yet the dreams gave her hope, and hope gave strength.

The moon had gone through one full cycle and half of another before they made landfall. Adia woke, thinking something had changed. The ship rolled as it hadn't since they'd set sail. They must be anchored.

Other slaves in the hold were waking and noticing the same thing. A ripple of excitement went through the group. No matter what horrors waited on land, life would have to be better in the open air than this stinking ship.

When two sailors came down with the pots of stewed rice used to feed the captives, someone called,
"Where are we?"

The younger sailor, who seemed less hardened than his crewmates, said,
"Jamaica. It's a fine sugar island. Later today you'll be divided into parcels
and taken to the market."

Adia ate a bite of her rice, which today had bits of fish in it. She swallowed it slowly, though she wanted to gulp down the whole bowl. For the last half moon she had been giving most of her rice to Fola. Her friend was a tall, strong woman who needed more food, and during the voyage she had become gaunt with hunger.

"You must eat, child," Fola murmured when Adia offered the bowl.

"Now that we are arrived, there will be more food," Adia said.
"I have had enough."

Fola's hunger made her easily persuaded. She finished her rice, then Adia's. Then they waited in the dark and stink of the hold. Finally the hatch opened and slaves were conducted up in groups. The sailors watched like jackals to prevent any escapes, since this close to land a slave would be tempted.

Adia squinted in the dazzling light when her group was ordered out. This Jamaica was beautiful, with turquoise water and jagged green mountains surrounding a bay. Fat clouds grazed across the sky. A blast of rain hit her boat as they were being transported to shore. She welcomed the squall, which cooled the heat and washed away some of the smell.

On shore, the captives were kept under armed guard as they were divided into groups equal to two hands' worth of fingers. Adia noticed that the parcels were mixed between men and women, weak and strong, with a child or two per group. There was a single hand of slaves left over at the end, including Adia.

They were herded into a merchant's yard with high fences, each parcel chained together. After a long wait standing in the noonday sun, a gate opened and a group of white men rushed in, eager to find parcels that pleased them. Adia's English wasn't good enough to follow most of the bargaining, but the yard soon cleared as parcels were bought and the groups herded out by the new owners. Her straggly group of five was the last left. Fola was in one of the first parcels to be sold. They exchanged a last glance before Fola vanished from the yard. It was yet another loss, leaving Adia alone again. Her jaw clenched. She would not cry.

One of the white men was brought over by the merchant. "Your last chance, Harris," the merchant said.
"You know you need more slaves, and who knows when the next ship will arrive?"

Harris frowned. "This is a weakly lot—they'll all die before I get my money's worth out of
'em." His gaze fell on Adia, and he stepped close, taking her chin in his hands and forcing her face up.
"This one has some spirit, but she's just a little scrap who won't be useful for
years."

"I'll give you a good price on this parcel."

"Not interested in any but the girl." Harris started to walk away.

"I'll sell her to you at three pence a pound," the merchant offered.

"Two pence a pound. I'll have to spend a fortune in rice and
salt pork to fatten her up."

The merchant shrugged and unlocked Adia's shackles, then led her into a small room that opened off the yard. Adia was prodded up onto a scale and weighed. Thus, rigid with fury, she was sold like a basket of vegetables. Her new life had begun.

The only thing that kept her sane was Grandmother's reassurance.
"You will die free."

Chapter
EIGHT

J
ean awoke feeling vertigo, as if she was rocking back and forth. Gradually she realized that she really was moving, her body rising and falling from the familiar motions of a ship. But what ship, and why?

She opened her eyes and found that she was lying on a narrow bunk in a small cabin. A porthole admitted enough light to illuminate her stark surroundings. She was rumpled, bruised, and her mouth was dust-dry.

She swung from the bunk and lurched to the porthole. A distant dark line marked the coast. The ship was well out to sea—too far to swim even if the window were large enough for her to escape. From the angle of the sun, she guessed it was late afternoon.

The cabin was so small that she could stand in the middle and touch all four walls. The bunk was built in, along with several storage cabinets and a tiny washbasin that was set into a counter. Next to it, a pitcher was set into a well to protect it during rough weather. Mercifully it was filled with water. She drank greedily and felt better.

The cabinets were mostly empty, probably cleaned out in haste by the prior inhabitant. The cabinet under the bunk contained several worn but neatly folded male garments with her battered bonnet stuffed in on top. The area under the washbasin contained two threadbare towels and an irregularly shaped bar of soap. There was also a chamber pot tucked into another cabinet. No weapons or other interesting items had been left behind. Nothing to tell her more about the ship or its crew.

The lock on the door was solid but simple. She could probably open it with a hairpin and a touch of magic, but there was no point in doing that now, when she had no place to run. Even if she crept out and stole a ship's dinghy, she'd be recaptured in no time. Either that, or used as target practice.

The slim knife that she wore sheathed on her inner thigh was still in place, so apparently she hadn't been searched carefully. It probably hadn't occurred to her captor that such a demure and useless maiden might be armed.

She took the two steps back to the bunk and sat down. The last thing she remembered was the man who called himself Nicholas Gregorio. He had taken her hand, there had been a rush of energy, and everything had gone black. She ran a palm over her head. No bumps or pains. She had been knocked out by magic.

Gregorio must be a mage. But why the devil had he kidnapped her?

Her stomach lurched again, so she stood and opened the porthole, breathing deeply of the fresh air. Ordinarily Guardians didn't talk about themselves to mundanes, and Gregorio would have been only a boy twenty years ago.

But he had power, so he was probably a Guardian himself. If he had Guardian parents, her father might have visited the household of the young Gregorio. Her father and Sir Jasper Polmarric had toured the Mediterranean about twenty years ago, calling on Guardians everywhere they visited. Such tours were a way of maintaining bonds among Guardians of different nations.

If Gregorio was a Guardian, why would he kidnap her? Guardians almost never injured other Guardians, except for the rare rogue mages. Perhaps Gregorio was a rogue. That was more likely than that he was a white slaver—she wasn't so dazzingly beautiful that he would instantly feel a need to steal her away to be sold in Barbary. Though Captain Gordon had commented on the rarity of her red hair, today it was heavily powdered and she looked thoroughly bland.

More likely the kidnapping had to be related to Gregorio's knowing her father. Anger had blazed from him when he took her hand. But why on earth would he be angry at her father after twenty years? James Macrae had been a calm man, well liked by everyone. Jean and Duncan had inherited their tempers from their mother.

She relaxed and tried to scan the ship, but the cabin must have been shielded. She could detect only the faintest traces of the crew. For the thousandth time, she wished she was a more powerful mage.

Did she still have her scrying glass? She always carried it in a hidden pocket sewed into her gowns. She patted a seam on the left side of her gown. Yes, like the knife, the glass had been overlooked. She retrieved the quilted pouch and removed the polished disk of obsidian. She and her sister-in-law had studied scrying together. She couldn't match Gwynne's ability with the glass, but she'd become moderately competent.

After warming the glass between her palms, she asked a mental question about her situation. A wave of anxiety shivered through the obsidian, and she saw vague images of people searching for her. She sensed that Monsieur Fontaine had sent a message to the newlyweds reporting Jean's disappearance. She frowned, hating the idea that their honeymoons would be ruined.

Even if her friends discovered what had happened to her, there was little they could do. A ship at sea was a very small needle in a very large haystack. Perhaps a Guardian who was an exceptionally gifted hunter, like Simon, might be able to locate her, but even that was doubtful. She suspected that Gregorio was adept at covering his tracks.

What about Gregorio himself? She tried to bring up his image in the scrying glass, but he remained frustratingly out of focus. Though she sensed that he was a man who burned with anger and determination, she couldn't tell what his goals were, or what had made him what he was.

As always, serious attempts to use magic gave her a headache, so she hid the scrying glass away and lay back on the bunk. She cleared her mind and tried to reach Breeda. The two of them were alike in ways that went beyond red hair, so Breeda was the best chance for communicating.

After long minutes of striving, she felt that she touched Breeda, who was tense with anxiety. Jean tried to send the message that she was alive and unharmed, but she wasn't sure if she'd succeeded. Then she tried to reach the other thralls, with even less sense of success.

With nothing useful left to do, she rolled on her side and went back to sleep.

Jean thought that Gregorio would appear soon to threaten, explain, or taunt, but she was left alone. As the hours passed, she realized that boredom was going to be a major problem in captivity. She'd never been good at sitting still and doing nothing.

After a few hours of inactivity, she was ready to leap out of her skin. Since pacing the tiny cabin did no good, she forced herself to relax and review all the kinds of magic that might be useful.

Her heart jerked as dusk approached and the door opened, but it was only a pair of sailors delivering a meal. The tray was carried by a hard-faced man of uncertain ancestry. He was accompanied by an armed African who kept his pistol aimed at her. She'd had no idea what an alarming female she was.

She tried to coax them to speak using English, French, and Latin, with no success. Perhaps the damned men were mute. Being ignored was simultaneously soothing and anxiety provoking. What did Gregorio have in mind for her?

After they left, she clamped down on her anxiety and turned her attention to the food. The tray contained a wooden bowl holding a sticky, rice-based dish. Bits of fish and onion were mixed in, and it was surprisingly tasty. There was also a piece of good bread and a heavy glass tumbler of white table wine. She'd dined on worse in the homes of British gentry.

The only utensil was a spoon made of soft metal. She supposed her captors were being cautious, but they lacked imagination if they didn't realize that a glass tumbler or a china washing pitcher could be broken and turned into a weapon. Or maybe they merely recognized that such heroics on her part would do no good under the present circumstances.

With no candle nor any reason to stay awake, she retired when the sun went down. Since she didn't want to sleep in her gown and stays, she retrieved the worn garments she'd found in the cabinet. A pair of loose sailor's trousers in faded navy blue and a white shirt stained by dubious substances would make decent sleepwear.

She hacked the trousers to ankle length so she wouldn't trip over folds of extra cloth. The waist was huge, but it was secured by a length of cord so she could tie the trousers tightly enough to stay on. The sleeves she rolled up to free her hands. Though she looked like a rag-picker, it was a relief to be out of her regular garments. She kept her knife and scrying glass on her, just in case she had a chance to escape.

For someone who had slept on stones and piles of bracken or heather, the hard bunk was comfortable enough. She pulled the blanket close against the chilly night air. Perhaps because she had slept earlier, she found it difficult to doze off.

A sailing ship was a living entity, a symphony of creaks and thumps as well as the steady splashing of water against the hull. She'd grown accustomed to sailing sounds on the voyage to Marseilles, had even found them friendly. Now she was intensely aware that this ship was taking her away from everything and everyone she knew.

Lady Bethany had said Jean would have an adventure. Surely she would have been more concerned if she'd sensed that Jean was going to be murdered out of hand by a vengeful pirate? If this was merely an
"adventure," the implication was that Jean would survive. On that hopeful note, she finally dozed off.

For two days, she was alone except for the brief visits of the food sailors. The morning meal was some kind of stewed grain paste, probably wheat, with bits of dried fruit mixed in. Served with hot mint tea, it wasn't bad.

When she tired of cataloging her store of spells, she tried to remember poetry she'd memorized. She was definitely not cut out for long-term imprisonment.

Boredom ended on the third day when the door opened at midday, not a time when a meal was expected. She glanced up, her senses on high alert. Nicholas Gregorio filled the doorway, dark and threatening. Though he still wore impeccably tailored clothing and admirable boots, his garments were not those of a gentleman. With his head bare and a cutlass hanging at his side, he looked like a pirate. A disturbingly powerful and attractive pirate.

"So my kidnapper deigns to visit." She slid from the bed and stood with her back to the outside wall as she tried to read his energy. No luck—he was tightly shielded. He burned with leashed fury, and he was clearly the captain of this vessel, but those facts could be read in his face and bearing with no need for magic.
"Why am I here?"

His dark eyes glinted maliciously. "Letting you wonder suits my
purpose."

"Rubbish," she said impatiently. "You've kidnapped me, a woman
you've never met, and seem intent on destroying my life. At the least, you owe
me an explanation."

"Since you wish to know…" He closed the cabin door behind him with an ominous click.
"You are here because your father betrayed me in the vilest possible way. I
swore I would avenge myself against him and the house of Macrae. Since he is
dead, that means you and your brother must pay for your father's crimes."

Her jaw dropped with shock. "That's utter nonsense! My father was
the last man on earth to betray anyone. You must be mistaken."

"James Macrae of Dunrath, yes? Also known as Lord Ballister, with
a son and heir named Duncan. You confirmed that yourself. Or does Dunrath have
another Macrae claiming chieftainship?"

"No," she admitted. "But perhaps someone used his name falsely."

He snorted. "And this mysterious person had Guardian powers? You
are grasping at straws, madam."

She had to agree that such a deception was unlikely. "What is the
crime you accuse him of?"

A muscle jerked in the captain's cheek. "Your precious
father betrayed me into slavery. There is no punishment great enough for that."

Shock piled on shock. "No! My father would never do such a thing!"

"No?" His smile was bitter. "I was there, madam. You were not."

"Tell me what happened." When he didn't reply, she added,
"I'll need a great deal of convincing to believe such slander. At the moment, I
believe you're deranged."

"It doesn't matter whether or not you believe." He moved forward a step, close enough to touch her if he chose. A thin, almost invisible scar curved from his left jaw into his black hair.
"I told you the truth only because you asked."

If he was deliberately trying to intimidate her, he was doing a good job of it. Hands clenched, she tried to shield herself, but she wasn't sure that her spell would work against a man like this.
"I do wish to know the truth, Captain," she said with an attempt at calm. "Even
if it turns my world upside down. Where did you meet my father? What was the act
of betrayal?"

"I was born in Malta and orphaned young," he replied, voice clipped.
"Twenty years ago, on the worst day of my life, your father and his friend, Sir Jasper Polmarric, found me in Valletta and said I had magical power. They told me of the Guardians and said they would protect and educate me." Gregorio's mouth twisted.
"Your father claimed he would take me to Scotland and foster me with his own
children."

"That sounds like him." Jean's parents had often fostered Guardian children in need of a temporary home. Simon, Earl of Falconer, had been one such child after his parents died. But while Simon had been a slightly unnerving older brother to her, it was impossible to imagine this pirate in that role.
"What happened to prevent you from coming to Dunrath?"

"On the way to Britain, our ship was attacked by Barbary pirates." His dark eyes blazed with remembered fury.
"I was taken captive. When I called for help, your father saw me in the hands of
pirates, and he turned away. He bloody well turned his back!"

Jean had a vivid, deeply disturbing image of a child crying out while the adult he trusted abandoned him. The image was so sharp that she wondered if it came right from Gregorio's mind. But her father would not have behaved in such a way. He
wouldn't.
"Battle is chaos. He must not have seen you."

"He looked right into my eyes and turned away," the captain said coldly.
"Besides, was he not a mage? In the weeks I knew him, he proved often that he could detect my presence when I was near. He saw me taken, and decided it was not worth risking himself for a gutter rat, despite the promises he'd made." Anger throbbed through his voice, white hot despite all the years that had passed.