Blood in the Water (3 page)

Men pulled lines in sequence and silence, aligning the canvas to the perfect angle. The sails bulged and pulled the Hawk forward steadily. Nothing greeted their movement but the slap of sleepy water. The inlet came into view, just a low smudge of dark with a sudden spike of masts at the end. Lanterns lit the ship top to rudder, a lighthouse beacon in the night. Kyros watched their distance grow, following the line of reef between them. He checked through his spyglass, but no movement on deck signaled they’d been spotted.

For hours the Hawk glided against the waves, farther and farther from the inlet until it dwindled to a dot, then around in a huge arc to dodge the reef. Kyros tracked their progress and that of the time. At the proper location, he called for crossed sails and a change of the skeleton crew. The Hawk had a clear approach, and with their target anchored so close to shore, she was a sitting duck.

Just before dawn, Kyros went below deck to rouse the crew himself. He started with his quartermaster, and she opened her eyes at his touch, awake and ready. Kyros shook his coxswain’s hammock. “All hands. Ready the guns. Man the oars.”

Javier wrangled his thirty-odd men down one more deck, and Kyros heard wood sliding against wood. Kyros watched the gun deck for a heartbeat, proud of his men for their practiced mastery of battle.

A hand on the hilt of his sword, Kyros jogged up the stairs and took the helm. Beside him, Araceli shifted her weight with the list of the boat and peered through the spyglass. “Still sitting there, sir. We’re never going to get another shot like this.”

“I agree.” Kyros felt the drum of the coxswain echo through the ship. The splash of oars. “All sail,” Kyros directed. “Full speed for ramming.”

The Hawk accelerated slowly, but once moving nothing could stop her. At the front, a reinforced ram cut through the water and bore down on their target. The Spanish trade ship bobbed in the waves, unaware. Kyros twitched the wheel, adjusting for current drift on the approach. Below decks, Javier led his men in a rhythmic song. Each pull of the oars yanked the ship faster. By the time they breached the reef, the Hawk flew through the water.

Too late, the watch on the trade ship spotted them incoming. Kyros yelled as they approached, “Brace for impact!”

The Hawk shuddered through iron and wood, crashing with supreme force into the broadside of the trade ship. Spanish sailors fell through the scar the Hawk had torn, and the entire ship heaved up, against her anchor. Kyros held the wheel as his ship twisted in the water, momentum carrying the two against each other. The Hawk’s port side slammed against the trade ship, throwing men, including Kyros, to the deck. He gasped.

Araceli bellowed, “PORT, FIRE ALL!”

A tight delay, where all Kyros could hear was the awesome splinter of wood. Then the Hawk jumped again, exploding from the left as each cannon fired asynchronously.

Kyros regained his feet. His men from the oars came flooding onto the deck, sword and mace in hand, ready for battle. There wasn’t much of one to be had. The trade ship listed to starboard, taking on heavy water and shedding Spanish sailors in equal measure. Kyros swept his arm over his men. “All hands to the Spanish. Kill anyone you find, and recover that cargo before we loose the ship.” Men swarmed to his command.

He continued to point. “Gregory, Antony. Grab two men each and tether lines fore and aft to hold it up. Jav—” Araceli yanked Kyros forward off his feet and thrust her sword into the gut of a Spaniard behind him.

Kyros rolled up and drew his sword to engage another yellow-coated man in the dark. They had climbed up the back of his ship. Kyros parried a thrust and lunged. His sword pierced the man’s chest, sending him coughing to the deck. Kyros kicked his sword away and engaged the next.

Two, three, four men in a row. Kyros heard Araceli handling her own stream of offense with quick, brutal efficiency. Kyros kicked a man on the rail back down to the water. He and Araceli leaned over the back of the ship. A final man climbed a line from water level, hand over hand. Araceli pulled out her pistol, but Kyros put his hand on her fist. “Hold fire. I believe that’s our Spanish captain.”

She made an impatient face but lowered the weapon. The captain climbed to the deck under the point of two swords. He made a show of holding his hands up, away from the sword and pistol on his belt.
“Has destruido mi barco y llevado mis bienes. No tome mi pueblo también.”

Kyros touched the point of his sword under the captain’s chin, and he looked up to avoid it, wary. His eyes flicked from Kyros to Araceli and back. Kyros said, “Ask if he speaks Portuguese. I don’t want to waste time finding Javier.”

“Você fala esta língua?”

The captain squinted at Araceli, half-confused, then decided to nod and toggle one hand. Sort of.

“Good enough,” Kyros said. “Tell him to abandon his ship and collect his men on shore. If anyone fights us, we’ll kill them. When we’re done, he can salvage what’s left.”

Araceli delivered the ultimatum rapidly, and the captain’s progressive squint indicated he didn’t quite follow. She scowled and repeated in shorter words.
“Deixa o barco. Leve os seu homens. Não voltes.”

“Sí.”
He nodded.
“Sí.”
Kyros pulled his sword back an inch or two, and the Spanish captain backed himself into the rail of the Hawk. He glanced between Araceli and Kyros one last time, then turned and heaved himself over the edge.

Kyros turned back to the body of his ship and stepped over a sprawled Spaniard. The trade ship listed beside them, resisting the pull of a dozen lines holding it afloat. A gangplank dropped from the Hawk into the jagged hole of the trade vessel, a steady stream of men coming and going to empty her goods.

“Very good,” Kyros said, to no one in particular. He wiped his sword on a Spaniard coat and used a bit of cloth from his own shirt to clean the blood from the corners. Kyros slid it into the scabbard at his waist and left Araceli to delegate cleanup on deck. He trotted down the gangplank to the Spanish ship.

It looked worse on the inside than it did from the Hawk. Lanterns swung from exposed beams. Wood and metal were bent and broken in every direction. Twisted cannon lay some half a ship-length from their proper holds. Cannon balls collected in low corners like iron water. The Hawk’s ram had cut in far enough to warp the stairs center of the ship. Kyros navigated men and debris on his way to the captain’s cabin.

African trinkets and fetishes littered the place. All, bright reds and greens. Kyros picked through sheets of fabric and handfuls of carved things. A statue of a long-necked beast with stubbed horns towered in one corner, a deadly creature no doubt. Kyros had no intention of finding his fortunes in Africa. The place swarmed with monsters.

He dug through every cabinet, every drawer, every corner where something of more value might be hidden. He found something wrapped in plain linen. Kyros unrolled it over the table, but what he discovered didn’t look like anything he knew. It appeared to be gold, but weighed much more than that. It was a complete ring about the size of his two fists together, tapered a bit at the bottom (or was that the top?) and with no smooth edges. Pieces of it lifted off the face and could spin in any direction, interlocking with each other.

Weird. And exactly the kind of treasure hunt Kyros could use as bait. He didn’t recognize this piece, but the form reminded him of a jar he’d once stolen from the captain of the Sun. He rolled the item back up and wedged it into his belt. Another several minutes spent rummaging turned up nothing else interesting. He left.

Kyros stopped two of his men on their way down to the hold. “Are there empty barrels or bags down below?”

“A few, yes, sir.”

“Bring them up here. Empty out the cabin.” Kyros pointed behind him. “There are a thousand small fetishes and some nice-looking fabrics we can sell. Wrap it all up good, I don’t want to see these things rolling around the deck.”

“Yes, sir.”

“There’s also a tall, square-patterned statue of a beast in one corner. Be careful with that. It’ll be worth more in one piece.” Kyros took a step up the gangplank and reconsidered, a hand on the shoulder of his man. “On second thought, bring the statue to my cabin. I’ll find a spot for it.”

He let them go and relieved one of his men of their burden, a big bag packed with fabrics. Kyros hefted it over one shoulder and joined the line back to the Hawk.

That afternoon, with Javier watching over the salvage operation, Kyros sat down in his cabin with Bram. The bosun unfolded a pair of delicate spectacles and opened his ledger. “A decent collection, Captain. Salted meats, garlic, ginger, onion… something called an a-vo-ca-do? We have half a dozen things I’ve never seen listed in the Spaniard ledger. It’ll take me some time to match them up.” Bram glanced up over his glasses. “I don’t have a good count of the little statues you found in the cabin, yet.”

Kyros nodded, “I don’t know if they’re worth anything. If not, I’ll let everyone pick out a favorite, but until then I don’t want to see them in anyone’s hands.

“Yes, sir. I’ve directed Tristan to craft new barrels, one for the trin—”

“Captain!” Araceli’s voice shouted through the door. She yanked it open but didn’t cross the threshold. “Sir, the Sun’s been spotted on approach.”

Kyros stood. “We’ll finish later, Bram.” He took the stairs two at a time, leaping to the helm and accepted the spyglass from Araceli. She pointed. He aimed the glass.

Sure enough, the dark hull and light sails of the Midnight Sun billowed in their direction. At speed.

“We should run.”

“No.” Kyros leaned over the rail to the deck and shouted, “Pull up the green for parlay.”

Araceli grabbed his shoulder and hissed, “Are you mad? They’re after this ship’s goods.”

“And I’m chasing a treasure on that one.”

A single cannon fired in the distance. Kyros and Araceli ducked. The iron ball flew over the deck and tore right through the fores’l. Kyros scowled and spied through the glass again. From the fore of his ship, Eric Deumont extended one middle finger.

Kyros muttered, “What’s the flag signal for ‘That was childish and unnecessary’?”

Araceli shook her head and stomped off the helm, her weight resounding each step through the deck.

****

Chapter II

February

Hours Later

The dawn cracked between a crowd of ship masts. A gangplank slapped between their decks, and Eric marched across, pointing at the cocky Hawk captain with one square finger. “You son of a bitch—”

A woman’s wide black hand landed square on his covered chest, and Eric twitched back, scowling. Ghalil rolled under his skin. “Your sword and pistol,” she said, her palm now up to receive them. “Or back where you came.”

“Who the hell are you?”

One elegant eyebrow went up her tall forehead in an expression Eric read without help. No, it didn’t matter. He unclipped the frog for his sword and threw it back to Claude on deck. The pistol holster followed. He put his arms out. “Anything else?”

She stepped aside with an ironic arm out toward her captain. “Welcome aboard.”

Eric pointed again, but some of the bluster fell from his sails with the interruption. Still, he had a bone or two to pick. “You should have stayed in the drink when I threw you over in Nassau.”

“And miss seeing your face again? Tell me you didn’t put too much effort into that jar—”

“That was you?” Eric bristled and clenched his fist. He felt Ghalil churn in his chest and the discomfort fueled his rage. He paused, nose to nose with the captain, and thought he saw a smile flicker across his expression. Eric stood taller than him by inches, and tilting his head down brought his dreadlocks forward, around his face. He dropped his voice. “That jar was more than a payday, you motherfucker. I—”

“You didn’t want that jar. It was already cursed.”

“Cursed, how?”

“There was some kind of ghost locked up inside. I sold it to a witch in south Florida.”

In an instant, Eric’s ferocity blew away. Eric felt his breath rush out, and even Ghalil’s disturbing turn couldn’t diminish the hope that blossomed in his chest. It was true, then. They could be caught. Captured. Eric brushed his left hand over his right pec. He could be free. He just needed all the pieces. Eric eased himself back half a step and said, “You need to tell me everything you know about that jar.”

The captain smiled in a slow spread of lips and inclined his head toward the stairs. “Why don’t we take this into the cabin.”

Eric got the distinct feeling he was being set up for something, but if this man knew anything at all about that jar… well, he didn’t have a choice, did he? “Lead on.”

“Captain!” Claude, from the deck of the Sun.

Eric put up a hand to prevent him from storming the Hawk. “If he’d wanted to kill me, he wouldn’t have run up the parlay. Stay on the Sun.”

The Hawk’s captain addressed the black woman as they walked past, “Quartermaster, start repairs on the fores’l and speak with the bosun about salvage of the trade ship. If we’re done, cut it loose. Let the Spaniards have the rest.”

“Yes, sir.”

He led Eric down the steps. “Your quartermaster is a slave? A woman? How do your crew stay in line?”

He shot a look over his shoulder, something assessing. “She’s a free woman and put in her position the same way yours was. By popular vote. My men respect her.”

“You don’t have to keep them in line?”

Now it was a full smile, sinister. He opened the door and gestured Eric in. “She does that all by herself.” He shut the door behind him. “What is it you’d like to know?” The captain passed by closer than necessary and draped a stretch of unfolded linen back over an item on the table.

Eric propped up the wall beside the door and crossed his arms. “That jar. Do you know how the spirit got inside?”

“A spell of some kind, I imagine. I didn’t try opening it, but the witch I consulted said it sealed from the inside.”

“With what?”

“Magic. It was meant to last ten years, after that it would have weakened enough for the ghost to get out.”