Risen (40 page)

He was a young captain, almost
thirty, but his vessel was owned outright, and he had the
experience of a lifetime at sea. Shrewd, sharp, and with a fierce
wit, Salvatore was a man of some notoriety. What drove him was the
ocean and his boat upon it, though his father’s voice could always
be heard somewhere, reminding him that a living must be
made.

“It’s a balance,” the old sailor
had warned him, “and you must run back and forth along the scales.
The risk,” he shook a finger at his son, “is that carelessness can
make you lose your freedom—the freedom to chase your love—a ship on
the open sea.” His father had also been in love with the sea, and
Salvatore stepped easily into his footsteps.

He remembered his father’s words
now, thought that perhaps he’d spent more time than he should on
one side of those scales, but this trip had helped to even them out
a bit. And the cargo had not been complicated—Indian salt and the
burros that packed it. The Europeans craved the salt these days,
and the nutty, brown rice it was packed in. A small, surely
scarcely missed portion of it had been a welcome treat for his men
on their voyage. And, they’d butchered one of the burros too.
Salvatore knew the buyers would assume the loss as an acceptable
hazard at sea, and his men would remain well fed and loyal as
ever.

The boat swayed slightly against her
moorings as the naked man splashed Mediterranean oil into his hair,
running his fingers through it before sweeping it back behind his
ears. He ran his hand over his short beard, salvaging the last of
the oil before donning his best, least salty, clothes.

Warm, brown eyes sparkled as he eyed
himself in the captain’s mirror, a gift given him for a covert dash
into the orient. The ship’s cargo that particular run had been a
single passenger, and the thickly framed mirror was a rare and
appreciated gift in addition to the generous payment. Tonight,
Salvatore appreciated the image that stared back at him.

His pulse quickened, and a familiar
excitement ran down his neck and across his shoulders as surely as
though someone had drawn a finger there. He anticipated his
evening. It was his intent to be ashore within the hour, drunk
within two, and back aboard his ship in…five, perhaps six. But not
until he’d fought at least one fight and occupied some sweet,
female company landside.

Salvatore took up his sword, a
Spanish Toledan that had belonged to his father, and lastly, he
looped the leather cord—the one with an image carved in red coral
fixed to it—about his neck. It was a bird, a raven. He dropped the
token beneath his shirt and passed his hand over it, making sure it
rested there. Then he kissed two fingers and pressed them against
the wood underbelly of his ship.

“Grace go with you,” he murmured to
her before leaving his captain’s quarters.

Stalking onto the deck, he scanned
the boat as a lover does the body of his mate. The graceful curve
of her, sweeping to the bow, was busy with activity. Two masts
stood against the bright, early night sky, their spreaders like so
many arms, greeting their master, begging him to stay. A smile
pulled at the edge of his lips. He would not be gone from her for
very long, for the Red Raven was a jealous mistress.

It’d been a good run—profitable, and
his crew would be well rewarded. There were a few repairs to be
tended, some wagers to make square on, but it was a good tide, and
he was in high spirits as he breathed in deeply of the night
air.

His crew was busy, scurrying about,
for they’d scarcely been at dock a few hours. They unloaded
freight, restocked supply, scrubbed, stowed, and secured all that
must be until his ship was perfect. Then, they would break. It was
how he commanded his ship, and his men were of his kind, respecting
his ethic as though it was their own.

Several of the sailors looked up
from their work, nodded or gave a two fingered wave as their
captain surfaced from below. This was not the first time they’d
been ashore with Salvatore. When all was in place, they too would
go landside in shifts, perhaps seeing him there, perhaps
not.

“Men!” he cheered and swept a hand
across the lot of them. “A splendid voyage, and it is time we reap
the spoils of our toils!”

He was met with a resounding cheer
from all of them. Then, the Spaniard stalked down the plank and
onto the dock. Moments later he was swept up into the early tide of
life that was evening in the small, wicked town of
Toulon.

* * *

Ravan entered the port town at
nearly dusk. He and his band of men were exhausted. They had ridden
nearly nonstop for eight days, resting only long enough to keep
themselves in the saddle and exchange their horses for fresh
mounts. They were gravely worn and lean, their mounts even more
so.

The animals were untacked
straightaway, and respite was gained as well for his men as they
camped on the outskirts of Toulon. Velecent alone would accompany
Ravan into town.

He’d learned, along the way, from
those who would help them and a few who wouldn’t, that Toulon was
the end stop of their search. Here they would find the captive
children or discover them missing, if they were already gone—set
sail to the East to be sold.

The bustling town of Toulon was a
shipping seaport, and something Ravan was unfamiliar with. He
immediately didn’t like it, strongly preferred the isolation of the
mountains, the solitary voice of wind through the forest on a cold
day. There were men of all sorts and ill sorts—traders, sailors,
merchants—even pirates if one looked closely enough. Ravan did not
fear them, for he was more than well acquainted with their
like.

Besides Risen and Sylvie, there were
many other commodities being bought and sold in the seaside
market—furs, goat skins, wine, copper, silk. Then there were those
who dealt with less than reputable trades, slavery being one of
them. Amongst them were those who would sell a child. Ravan’s heart
hardened.

No one who walked this village could
know it, but there was a time when this dark mercenary had endured
for a long while the taste of murder and revenge on the back of his
tongue. It’d been a blessing and a curse for him, had given him
strength when all else had failed him. A woman whom he loved and
two children, a home, friend…a brother, these things had taken the
awful taste from him. Now…it was back.

Initially, he fought an overwhelming
urgency to simply scourge the harbor, to search boats, warehouses,
and docks for anyone who might know of the whereabouts of his son.
But he realized this would be nearly an impossible task, and so his
strategy was simple. He must find out which boats sailed east, find
out who was supplying recruits for the Turkish army, find the heart
of profit in human trade.

His first order of business was to
find out who knew something—anything—about slave trade. This would
not be easy, for profitability, even under black circumstances,
prevented many from sharing sources. But Ravan already knew the
minds of men such as these, and so it was he chose to enter his
search as a seller, not a buyer. The logical first place to look
was the harbor…

“The dock master…yes, for tax!
There must be a list!” Velecent’s lean face seemed
renewed,

And so they found themselves, in
short order, at the harbor master’s office. Pounding a second time
on the timbered door of the small building, they were greeted by a
man of considerable stature.

Pulling a wool cloak over his
shoulders as though he would leave, the fellow said cheerily,
“Business is closed today, gentlemen. I am open again
in—”

Before he could finish his
statement, Ravan’s strategy was lost on him. Urgency overcame him
and a sweet red swept across his sight, slowing and darkening
everything in a most perfect way. The harbormaster may as well have
been the man who stole Risen from his home.

Ravan pushed his way into the small
building, murder in his eyes. Velecent kicked the door closed
behind them and reached for the shoulder of his friend. The
harbormaster backed away and sat down heavily onto a chair, almost
as though he was used to such a late evening’s
interruption.

The fellow—obviously used to dealing
with the likes of those who bargained here—was almost unimposing.
Yes, he appeared unhappy to engage the strangers but was otherwise
not concerned by the visitors, not one bit.

“There’s no coin here,” he said
simply. “I do not deal in capital; all funds are collected and
moved to an armed depot several times a day. I’m sorry, this is
only a record library that you’ve come to. There is a flotilla that
enforces the rules; you will not leave port without their
consent.”

The man spoke French but with an
accent. His courage was unusual…or foolish…and Ravan thought his
accent possibly Spanish or Portuguese. It was enough to draw the
red from the mercenary’s eyes.

“It is the records that interest
me. Nothing more. Help me and you will not be harmed.” Ravan’s raw
voice carried with it the weight of serious intent, and the man
seemed more than happy to comply.

“Well if it’s records you want,
we’ve no issue then. All business is legitimate. We can have a look
first thing in—”

“Now. We look now,” Ravan stabbed
his finger onto the middle of the only table in the
room.

The gentleman shot Velecent a pained
expression from beneath bushy brows, as though to say, “I don’t
like your friend…”

In short order, they had several
sheaves of records spread before them on the table, lists of goods
that were bought and sold, and the tariffs paid for their captain’s
right to use the port. Amongst the lists were two ships that had
sailed in the last week carrying slaves. The list and descriptions
were as follows:

~The Μαύρο άλογο (black horse) a
Greek vessel, Captain Tasoula Bakas: Amongst the cargo, thirty-two
slaves. These were twenty adult males and twelve adult females.
This ship sailed three days ago for Carthage.

~The Bakire Kurt (Virgin Wolf),
Turkish vessel, Captain Mesud Demetrios: Amongst the cargo,
ninety-two slaves—sixty-seven adult males, nineteen adult females,
four youth male, and one youth female. The ship sailed three
evenings before for Antalya.

A youth female. Sylvie, it had to be
Sylvie! “They have Risen and Sylvie!” Ravan exclaimed then turned
on the harbor master. “Describe the youth males. What did they look
like?”

The man shrugged. “I would not
remember such a thing. The records are not specific, only estimated
age.” He listed the male youth’s ages as two of them being
fourteen, one twelve. The female was listed as also twelve and
“crippled.”

“Describe them, the male youth.”
Ravan stepped around the table and toward the man, hands clenched.
He drew his knife, spun it around and over the back of his hand and
impaled it center on the table, through the paperwork. He added
simply, “I will kill you as you stand if you do not describe them.
Your memory had best serve you.” His palm remained resting loosely
on the butt of the blade. Ravan did not look up, only
waited.

The man held both hands up and
struggled to his feet, a look of genuine surprise flashing across
his face. “I’ve no argument with you. I…I…let me think. Yes, yes.
Of course! I remember.” The harbormaster licked his lips and sidled
sideways to place the table more between himself and the obviously
crazed visitor. His eyes shifted, and regret flashed across his
face as Velecent squared himself, arms crossed, allowing the man to
move no farther toward the door.

Ravan glanced up, pulled the blade
from the table, and tested its edge with his thumb.
“Yes?”

“The boys, the older ones. Brown
hair, I think. The lot of them, rugged—farm boys they appeared,
from what I could tell, with the filth and all.”

“The youngest boy…and the girl.”
Ravan approached the harbormaster, pressed the tip of the blade
against the man’s chest.

The fellow held both hands up, as
though this would prompt pity from his persecutor.

“I’m sorry. I cannot…you’re hurting
me. I—”

Ravan eased the blade away a small
bit then lifted it as though he would swing. “Very well, then you
will die.”

“Yes! Wait! Yes, the female.
Fragile little thing; can’t believe they would even barter with
her. Cripple, as I said, with a brace on her leg. Hair light as
flax. A pretty one she was. The boy, about her age, seemed
compelled to be close to her…I…”

Ravan’s eyes burned with
anticipation. “Go on.”

“Yes, yes…sturdy fellow, hair dark
as the night and eyes like…like…” He peered more closely at his
antagonist. “…yours. Yes, he is yours; looks just like you! Of
course! That is why you are…” The man let his sentence trail off
and dropped his hand to his sides. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” He
gestured to the records. “Most of these are orphaned and have no
family. They go wherever the winds take them, and sometimes it is
here.”

“Silence!” Ravan commanded before
spinning away from him, retreating into his own
thoughts.

So it was true. Risen and Sylvie
were aboard a ship and bound for Antalya two mornings before. He
barely missed catching them, by only two and a half days. He was
all at once broken, his heart torn with failure. Just then he
wished for nothing more than to have Nicolette here, so that she
might give him strength, give him hope. A lesser man would have
caved with the emotional and physical exhaustion of it all, but
Ravan was not a lesser man. He spun back to the
harbormaster.