Risen (41 page)

“Tell me of this Demetrios and his
ship. Who is he?”

The man shrugged as though all
should know. “He is the captain of the Virgin Wolf. It is a big
ship. Deals solely in human trade.” The harbormaster glanced away.
“His partner is Yeorathe Baknan. That one knows his profit margins
better than most. He is the only one out of Toulon who trades in
soldado juventude, how do you say…child soldiers? He runs with
Demetrios, takes their ship to Morea, and this time…” he hesitated,
rechecked his records to be sure, “…yes, to Antalya. It is there
they will sell to the slaves, likely Devsirme.”

“Devsirme?” The man was speaking
words unfamiliar to Ravan. “What is this?”

He stepped closer and listened
closely as the harbormaster described Demetrios as a “maniot” sea
captain who dealt specifically in the profit of slaves. The captain
appeared to supply transportation for slave trade across the
Mediterranean Sea into regions east, especially Turkey. His
partner, the one named Yeorathe, was occupied more with the
acquisition of the slaves, although he was a Seljuk Turk. They were
heading to his homeland, Antalya. The harbormaster had only seen
the ship in port a handful of times. It was, evidently, a
blossoming venture for the two of them.

“Yeorathe, did you say? You are
certain?” Ravan’s expression narrowed.

“Yes. Yes, that is
correct.”

“Why?” Velecent was immediately
curious.

“Yeorathe. He is one of the four.”
Ravan’s expression revealed a growing realization. “He was one of
the two survivors, at the inn before I came home.” He looked at
Velecent. “It is revenge. The conflict was for revenge.”

“But the boy lives. We know that
now.” Velecent indicated the papers. “They must not
know!”

“Why?” Ravan demanded of the harbor
master. “Why do the Turks want child slaves?” And for the second
time they heard of the one called Murad I—the Turkish Sultan who
led the Ottoman Empire—and the orphan army he trained.

“It is the work of evil!” Velecent
exclaimed.

“Call it what you will,” the
harbormaster shrugged again. “It is profitable on many fronts, and
that cannot be disputed.”

“I need a ship, tonight,” Ravan
demanded as though the man could pull one from his
pocket.

The fellow appeared surprised.
“There are none to be had at this hour, none reasonable coin could
afford.”

“Unreasonable, then, and there is
very little to keep me from being entirely disappointed with you,”
Ravan said through clenched teeth and raised the blade again so
that the man might seriously consider it.

“Wait…wait. There is one. Captain
can be a right…difficult sort. But for the right price he would get
you there, perhaps before the other, less than two weeks I’d
wager.”

“Name and where I might find
him.”

“He is just into harbor this eve. I
can tell you where he will likely be…”

* * *

It was not long before Ravan and
Velecent stood in front of a tavern, right on the edge of the
waterfront. It was connected to a warehouse of sorts, a building of
considerable size. It was here, at this tavern, they were told they
could find anyone or anything, coming or going.

The front of the establishment was
heavily boarded, but the sound within was staggering, even from a
distance. Ravan hesitated, and Velecent gestured with a “you first”
sway of his arm, a look of near amusement crossing his face. His
leader scowled, and the two advanced on the tavern shoulder to
shoulder only to be stopped abruptly at the door.

“You may not bring your weapons in
with you,” the man barring the entrance explained as dully as he
might explain how to peel a boiled egg.

He held a staff across Velecent’s
chest as though he would control the two men as a shepherd would
herd sheep. It was Ravan’s instinct to reach his hand for his
sword.

But Velecent said straight up, “Of
course. We are not here to wage hostility but profit and respite.”
He flashed a brilliant smile and went to ungird his own sword,
glancing at Ravan as he indicated that he should do the
same.

“And we can be guaranteed there are
none armed within this establishment?” Ravan wondered.

“None who would survive if they
pulled them,” the doorman answered wryly and received the weapons
from the men. He stepped aside, allowing the two to
pass.

It was a crowded group that milled
heavily within, speaking loudly in several tongues, all swinging
the spirit of their choice as they reveled. All of them, despite
lacking their weapons, appeared a rough lot and smelled strongly of
salt and rot. Ravan’s stomach turned that his son had been
somewhere amongst the dregs of this town. Velecent pushed eagerly
past him.

No one seemed to take much notice of
the two that entered, even unusual as they were with their battle
leathers and warriors’ countenance. Making their way to the bar,
Ravan squeezed between two men, one of them too drunk to notice
he’d lost his spot, the other not prepared to engage this stranger
in conversation. It was several minutes before someone asked him
what it was he desired.

“I need to know where I might find
a man,” He said loud enough for the man to hear.

The vendor’s eyes flashed in return.
He was portly and heavily bearded and glanced furtively about. “I
cannot be of help to you. I don’t know your friend.”

“I would take two draughts of your
best ale and have you hear a name. If not, I will happily burn this
place to the ground.” Ravan said it almost casually. “And then my
friend,” he indicated Velecent who nodded cheerily their direction,
“will piss on you to put the fire out.”

Velecent smiled widely and shrugged
in polite agreement to the terms.

When the man appeared genuinely
confused, perhaps believing the patrons to be mad, he said,
“Business is tendered elsewhere. Here we eat, drink,
spend.”

“It is only a name.” On Ravan’s
face was clearly the intent that this barbarian would kill all
present, or die trying, if his question was not answered to his
liking. And the first to go would be the bartender.

The man glanced left and then right.
There were men at either corner of the establishment, armed men to
keep the crowd in check, obviously.

Velecent stepped in, continued to
smile at the bartender. “You can call your dogs out if you wish,
but do you really want to risk him reaching you before they reach
him?”

As though believing the mercenary
would indeed scale the bar to reach him, the man checked his flank
one last time. Lifting two ales onto the bar, he eased closer to
Ravan, his voice dropping to just loud enough above the din for
Ravan to hear. “Harm can come to me. I will listen, but I cannot
guarantee help.”

Ravan just began to say, “Salvat—”
when he heard a loud exclamation from across the room behind
him.

“I will gut you this time,
Salvatore! You have insulted my honor for the last
time!”

There was a crash and a thud as the
angry man leapt over a table, taking with him the gentleman with
whom he was evidently at great odds. Both men careened to the floor
but were fast lifted to their feet by the milling crowd.

Salvatore was held by several
men—obvious friends of his attacker—while the other man took the
chance to land two blows, one to his midriff, the other to his
face.

The ship’s captain laughed, spat
blood, and retorted, “Oh, yes? Might I say, she would be more
faithful if you didn’t swing like a woman.”

This was enough to prompt another
volley of blows. Despite the sailor’s struggles, he could not break
free of those who held him.

Velecent had by then a drink and
used it to indicate Salvatore. “Fellow’s a bit outnumbered,
wouldn’t you say?”

He had no time for a response for
Ravan was already moving into the fray. He hit the two men who held
Salvatore hard from behind, taking all four of them down in a
writhing heap onto the earthen tavern floor. Velecent chose to
remain at the bar, content to drink his ale and see how three men
fared against Ravan and Salvatore.

He looked at the bartender, “Meat
please. Whatever you have, as long as it is cooked and not rotten.”
He swung lazily around to watch the fight.

Three of the group were on their
feet by then and swinging. Ravan felled one easily then took a blow
from another only to fall into the arms of the Spanish
captain.

Salvatore righted him and shot with
a grin, “I regret not to have met you before tonight.”

Before Ravan could say anything,
both of them were set upon by the other three. Down the five men
went and this time stayed on the ground, kicking chairs, swinging
fists. It was too chaotic for a proper match and, for the most
part, fairly inefficient.

The brawl was hot and fast but ended
seconds later as the proprietor himself pulled a sword and gestured
with it to the group, bellowing loud enough for all to hear.
“Gentlemen, take your quarrel outside. I have the stomach for
revelry, even sport, but my establishment will not survive sport
such as yours.”

Salvatore said without delay, “We’ll
stop our fighting! I promise…if you’ll let us drink—”

“Especially you,” the bartender
leveled the sword at him and indicated the door.

Ravan’s ale remained un-drunk, and
Velecent had scarcely downed his, taken a short draught from
Ravan’s, and grabbed the overcooked lamb shank before they were
ushered from the tavern, their weapons tossed after
them.

Salvatore was shoved past them both
but righted himself and gestured nobly, bowing in front of Ravan as
he gathered and strapped on his sword. “My gratitude,
friend…friends. May the wind be forever at your back.” The captain
smiled broadly, a black eye already presenting itself. Then he
smoothed his jacket, turned and staggered a small bit as he started
off into the night, whistling the first notes of an unfamiliar
tune.

Velecent took a bite from the lamb
shank and pointed at the man with it. “He’s getting
away.”

“Salvatore.” Ravan spoke only his
name, but the way it rolled from his tongue was enough to have the
man stop.

The captain glanced cautiously over
his shoulder as he turned slowly about, his hand going casually to
the hilt of his sword. “Sir, I am at a disadvantage as I do not
know your name. How am I to know if you are friend or foe?” He
continued to step slowly backward, farther away from Ravan and
Velecent, his pace and stance indicating that his talent with the
sword was perhaps considerable.

“I need a ship,” Ravan said
simply.

The captain squinted narrowly,
looked Ravan up and down, and replied, “You don’t seem the
seaworthy sort to me, if you don’t mind me saying.” He gestured
with a flick of his wrist, and started to turn about as though he
would be on his way.

“I need passage, and it would be
well worth considering,” Ravan added.

This was enough to have the man
pause. He spun again slowly and crossed both arms across his chest.
“Sirs, mine is not…normally…a merchant vessel. Neither is it for
hire…cheaply.”

“Yours is the ship I need if I am
to beat another in a race. Is it not?”

This seemed to pique the interest of
Salvatore a great deal. His eyes shot wide, wide as his recent
beating would allow. “You have my interest. Tell me more of this
race.”

“Past Moreo, into Antalya. I must
be there by two week’s end.”

The captain appeared surprised.
“Antalya, you say? Ah, now there is a port one can die in.” He
started to walk a lazy, wide circle around Ravan and Velecent.
“Tell me, what is it you seek should you win your race?”

“My son…and the death of the one
who took him,” Ravan said flatly.

Salvatore nodded slowly. “I see. And
how much does this son mean to you, as I’m sure you love him very
much.”

“You will profit greatly enough, if
you are able to have me there in time.”

Ravan could not know he’d just said
a great deal, for Salvatore had been for some time trying to pull
enough resources together to build an even faster ship. His father
had perhaps been right, for his son did not respect as often as he
should the constraints of a conventional merchant’s life.
Consequently his resources were hard won at times, often bartered.
Gold was rare, and what little he made went almost entirely into
the maintenance of his ship, the Corbeau Rouge—the Red
Raven.

“What is your name, sir?” Salvatore
wondered next.

“Ravan.”

To this, the captain’s mouth fell
open for an instant. “Raven…is it?” He continued to step sideways
slowly, circling his unlikely follower. “Now that is a sign, I
believe.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“A sign. You do believe in signs?”
Just as quickly, Salvatore dismissed the notion. “Never mind. Very
well,” he gestured over his head even though the night was
relatively calm. “Can we first be out of these elements and into an
atmosphere more conducive to, shall we say, negotiations? I’m
starving.” He pointed at Velecent, “And your selfish friend has
shared none of his spoils.”