The Merchant of Dreams (Night's Masque, #2)(43)

The skraylings finished tying them up and departed with their captain. Coby called out to Sandy, but he didn't respond. Maybe the captain had gagged him, or fed him a sleeping draught to keep him quiet. She realised she had no idea how the skraylings dealt with their prisoners. They did not seem like a cruel people, and yet she had heard some blood-curdling stories of the New World, of human sacrifice and mutilation. If the skraylings inscribed their flesh with needles for mere decoration, what might they not do to their enemies?

"Hendricks?"

She turned at the sound of her name. Gabriel grinned at her, his face a mask of blood, bruises and shadows. No, the skraylings would not have been so rough if they had intended to sell their human passengers to slavers. She took a sliver of comfort from the thought.

"You're not badly hurt?" she asked Gabriel.
"I gave as good as I got. You?"
"The same. I'm not sure about Sandy, though. He's been silent since the captain left."

She craned her neck. Sandy was trussed up tighter than his companions, and by the looks of it only the ropes held him upright. His head lolled forward, his features slack and eyes closed.

"Have you any idea why we've been taken prisoner?" Gabriel asked.

She shook her head. "It makes no sense. If the captain isn't our friend, why did he bring us all this way? Did he change his mind?"

"He could be taking us somewhere else."

"But where? Not Africa. I've seen for myself how much the skraylings fear slavery."

"Spain, then. You and I both work for Walsingham; I am sure King Philip would pay a bounty for the likes of us."

Coby shuddered. "They'd torture us for information."

"I dare say they would."

"You aren't afraid?"

"Terrified, to be frank. But we're not betrayed to the Spanish yet, so there's no point worrying about it, is there?"

"I wish I could be so sanguine."

The deck above them trembled with the passage of footsteps, and dust sifted down, sparkling in the thin beams of sunlight that pierced the planking. The captain shouted orders, and the entire vessel creaked and groaned as it shifted to starboard.

"What? Why are we heading west?" Coby cried out.

"West? Are you sure?" Gabriel looked around. "Perhaps we're turning back for England."

"Perhaps." It was a thin hope at best. "I think I can get out of my bonds. Mal's taught me a few tricks in the last year, and I have one or two of my own."

"Such as?"

She strained to look around. "I'd rather not say out loud. We can't be sure who's listening."

"Good point."

"Anyway, there's no use our getting free until we have a plan."

"And do you have one of those?"

"Alas, no."

Sandy sagged against his bonds, his stomach churning, though whether that was revulsion at the memories flooding his mind, or just the usual disorientation he felt whenever he put a spirit-guard on, he could not decide. Perhaps a mix of both. What had the captain said the young skrayling's name was? Daniel, or something like it. And Daniel had gone into the lion's den and not come out.

It had been a winter's night, eleven years ago, when Sandy and Mal had been woken by their elder brother Charles and taken on a midnight ride across the hills with the Huntsmen. A ride that ended in fire and mutilation and murder, an act intended to strike fear into the hearts of the skraylings and ensure they never ventured outside their enclave again. It was also the initiation of the two brothers into that secret order, against their will.

His memories blurred into a parade of images as unreal as the flickering shapes seen in a fire: distorted faces leering at him, candlelight that burned his eyes, houses flashing past the window of a coach… and through it all, the memory of the skrayling's cries of agony. He had not recognised him as the boy from the council meeting, of course – the trauma of rebirth had locked most of Erishen away in the depths of his mind –but seeing Tanijeel tortured and murdered by the Huntsmen had broken through the scars. Now the wounds bled afresh and he wept with guilt and grief. Hennaq was right. Too many had died already, and it was all his fault.

CHAPTER XII

They had fought off the corsairs, but it was a Pyrrhic victory. Nearly a third of the crew were either dead or so badly injured that their lives hung in the balance, and few had escaped unscathed. Every man who could walk and use at least one hand found himself doing double watches, including Mal and Ned. As far as possible they were given the simplest tasks: hauling on the sheets under the guidance of more experienced sailors, tending the wounded, fetching and carrying anything that was needed by Raleigh or the crew.

Unfortunately the ship's carpenter was one of the casualties, and without him the crew were able to make only the most basic repairs. The stern was the highest priority, and by the end of the first day after the attack the rear wall of the captain's cabin had been cobbled back together, enough to keep out the worst of the wind and sea should they hit a storm. However they had to break up most of the remaining bunk beds for planking, so Raleigh moved into the forward cabin and Mal and Ned joined the common sailors below. There was plenty of space now that so many of the crew were gone, but with the moans of the dying echoing up from the hold and only a few unbroken lanterns left to light the pitch darkness, the lower decks might as well have been some forgotten corner of Hell.